Page 3 of The Importance of Being Emma
Henry Woodhouse was the biggest hypochondriac I’d ever known. He was so obsessed with his ‘fragile’ state of health that he’d become a walking medical dictionary. He was so risk-averse that he was practically a recluse, hardly venturing beyond his home and his company, just a mile apart. Whenever I visited Hartfield, I half expected to be given a clean suit and mask or, at the very least, an antiseptic foot bath and hand wash. Accordingly, he prized the use of conventional pesticides, fertilisers and irradiation to safeguard his company’s products from contamination, almost as much as I valued organic methods to produce mine. In spite of such precautions, he never ate anything labelled ‘Highbury Foods’; he said his digestion was far too delicate.
Nevertheless, he was a long-standing friend of my family and, well, I respected his views and liked him enormously.
‘I’ll sort it,’ I went on. ‘India’s given me plenty of practice in dealing with insects, the humane way of course.’ Crossing to the window, I picked up the magazine, stood on the chair, pulled down the sash and gently manoeuvred the wasp outside, before securing the catch.
As I stepped down from the chair, I unrolled the magazine. What an intriguing headline. And that photo — legs a mile long, inviting smile, eyes looking deep into mine as if we were . . .
I gave a disparaging laugh. ‘So fame hasn’t gone to your head — yet. You obviously weren’t planning to keep this for your scrapbook.’
She folded her arms. ‘No, I wasn’t, it’s a pack of lies. I thought they’d at least get their facts right.’
‘You’ve got a lot to learn. Give the press an inch and they’ll take a mile.’ I looked again at the legs in the photo. ‘Shall I dispose of this for you?’
‘Give it back to Batty, she brought it in for me. So helpful, as always.’
‘Still going strong, is she?’ I said, slipping the magazine into my briefcase. ‘Poor Henry, he’s only got you and her to cosset him now that Kate’s gone.’
This was evidently more comfortable ground; she unfolded her arms and managed a pale imitation of the smile in the photo.
‘That’s a sore point. Dad thinks Kate’ll come back, he says she doesn’t really want to set up an antique wine business with her new husband. That’s why he refused to find a permanent replacement, but fortunately Batty’s got a temp in. I’m hoping he’ll soon forget all about Kate and then we can advertise her job.’
‘From what I remember, she’ll be a hard act to follow.’
‘Definitely, she kept this place running like clockwork. And she’s been such a good friend. If she hadn’t been willing to move into Hartfield to keep an eye on Dad, I’d never have gone to Harvard.’
‘Ah yes, you went there straight after University.’ I paused. ‘You know, there’s a lot more value in an MBA if you’ve worked for a few years first.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion, I suppose.’ Then she sighed. ‘Anyway, there’s Kate married at last — and it’s all down to me.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘I’ve discovered I’m an expert at matchmaking. When Tom Weston came back here four years ago, I knew he’d be perfectfor Kate. And it didn’t take much to arrange, even though people said he’d never settle down at his age.’
‘So you controlled their every move?’
She nodded, oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘Mind you, there were one or two hiccups. For one thing, I would have preferred it if they’d lived together before they got married. Then Tom could have moved into Hartfield with Kate while I was away, which means Dad would have got used to a man about the house.’
‘Oh? Why would he want to do that?’
She gave an impish grin. ‘In case I meet the man of my dreams. I couldn’t possibly leave Dad on his own, so he — whoeverheis — would have to live at Hartfield.’
‘Lucky man,’ I said drily. ‘And why didn’t Tom move in with Kate as ordered — sorry, suggested?’
‘Because he’d set his mind on them living together at Randalls and nowhere else. At the time, Randalls wasn’t even on the market and, when he did manage to buy the place, it needed a lot of work. Remember, Mrs Sanderson lived there for centuries and never spent anything on it.’
‘How annoying for you, to be outmanoeuvred so easily.’ I raised one eyebrow. ‘Presumably their wedding turned out as you planned?’
‘Oh, it was lovely. I know it’s a cliché, but Kate looked radiant. And I thought Tom might look old enough to be her father, but he didn’t.’
I frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s only fifty or so and Kate must be at least thirty-five.’
‘She’s thirty-eight, he’s forty-nine. Quite an age difference.’
I thought of my girlfriend back in India — she was twenty-six, I was going to be thirty-five in a few weeks — and decided to change the subject.
‘Did Flynn Churchill make it to the wedding?’ I was referring to Tom’s son, who’d achieved cult status in Highbury over theyears. All the more incomprehensible since nobody had ever met him, except his doting father.
Emma’s face clouded. ‘No, he didn’t. Kate and Tom were very upset.’
