Emma. Alexander McCall Smith
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enjoy them? What then?’
‘They look fine to me,’ said Isabella. ‘There are loads of people at Gresham’s whose parents live in London – or work there – and they seem fine to me.’
Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘The air is far healthier out here,’ he said. ‘And if you lived in London, young lady, you’d know all about it. You’d have a streaming cold 24/7, as you people like to say. And you’d be running the risk of much worse, believe me. If the water’s been through however many sets of kidneys … No, don’t make that face, this is science I’m talking about. If London water has been through all those systems …’
‘Through boys’ systems too,’ contributed Emma.
Isabella smiled. She did not object to that.
‘If London water has had that experience,’ continued Mr Woodhouse, ‘then what’s the chance of at least some viruses escaping the attention of the chlorine, and, I believe, ammonia they dose the stuff with? What about hepatitis? That’s water-borne, as I think I’ve told you in the past.’
‘Hepatitis turns you yellow,’ said Emma.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Woodhouse, glancing at Isabella. She did not take these things seriously enough, he felt, and shock tactics were sometimes necessary to emphasise a point. ‘A fact worth remembering.’
There were several such conversations about the dangers of London, but it seemed that none of them had much impact on Isabella’s desire to move there as soon as possible. Mr Woodhouse agonised over this in private, but also raised the subject with Miss Taylor.
‘She seems dead set on going off to London,’ he said as they walked together one evening in the shrubbery. ‘I’ve talked to her about it, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other with that girl. In fact, I’m not sure that it even goes in one ear at all. I think that a lot of what I say is completely ignored. Emma’s quite different, of course – she listens to what I have to say, but her sister …’
‘Her sister is a very different girl,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘We all know that.’
‘I can’t understand it,’ said Mr Woodhouse, shaking his head with exasperation. ‘They have the same DNA.’
‘Not quite the same,’ corrected Miss Taylor. ‘They share some DNA but they have their own genes. They’re not identical twins.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘But they come from the same background and at least they have the same broad genetic inheritance, and yet …’
Miss Taylor reached out and placed a calming hand on his arm. ‘Isabella is more physical,’ she said. ‘It’s as simple as that. In fact, I’m sorry to have to say this, but there’s only one thought in her head at the moment: the opposite sex.’
The words the opposite sex were carefully enunciated – as if she were speaking with gloves on – and uttered in a slightly disapproving Scottish accent. The effect was electric.
‘Boys?’
Miss Taylor nodded. ‘Isabella is interested in boys. They are all she thinks about. They, I’m afraid to say, are her destiny.’
He fell silent. He did not like to think about the implications of what the governess had said. Was this the reason why one had daughters – to hand them over to be seduced by lascivious boys? He shuddered. He did not want the world to claim his girls. He wanted them to stay with him forever, in the security – or at least the relative security – of Hartfield. Let the outside world do its worst, but let it do it outside, and not within the curtilage of this agreeable old house and these gentle acres.
‘We need to marry her off,’ he muttered.
Miss Taylor frowned. ‘I didn’t think people spoke in those terms any more.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘The fact of the matter is that I have a daughter who is going to get herself involved in all sorts of affairs if we don’t.’ He hesitated, looking at Miss Taylor as if for advance confirmation of what he was about to say. ‘That will happen unless we find a husband for her as soon as possible.’
‘But Isabella’s only seventeen,’ protested Miss Taylor. ‘She hasn’t really lived yet.’
‘Many people get married at eighteen or nineteen,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘The average might be higher, but remember that you only have to be sixteen.’
‘Child brides,’ said Miss Taylor dismissively.
‘My mother was eighteen when she married my father,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘And it was a very successful marriage, as I think you know. My own wife was twenty-two when we married.’
Miss Taylor was silent.
He felt more confident now. ‘So you see, it’s not so outrageous an idea to want to fix your daughter up with a husband in order to protect her from what might be a string of unhappy affairs with all sorts of unsuitable young men. In fact, the more I think about it, the more attractive it seems.’
Miss Taylor now spoke. ‘But you can’t fix people up, as you put it. She’s a young woman now. She’s going to have her own ideas of what she wants, and I’m sorry to have to spell it out, but those ideas won’t necessarily be the same as yours.’ She frowned. ‘This is the twenty-first century, you know.’
‘That’, he said, ‘is a fact of which I am only too acutely aware. And I’m also aware of the fact that you cannot choose your daughter’s husband for her.’ He paused. ‘But what you can do is to let suitable people know that your daughter is about the place. That’s all. Then nature will take its course – or at least you hope it will, and some suitable young man – somebody from round about here – will step forward and win her over. That’s all.’
Miss Taylor stared at him. She had wondered whether he was being entirely serious; now she understood that he was.
‘And how do you let people know?’ she asked.
Mr Woodhouse smiled. ‘Do you read those copies of Country Life I get?’
Miss Taylor knew immediately what he had in mind. ‘You mean we should get Isabella’s photograph into Country Life? On that page near the front where they have a picture each week of an attractive young woman, with details below of her parents and what she’s doing?’
Mr Woodhouse nodded. ‘It’s a great tradition,’ he said. ‘They’ve been doing it for years, you know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘In fact, my mother had her photograph there. I’ve got the copy of the magazine in my study. I’m rather proud of it. To have a mother who had her photograph at the front of Country Life is quite something, don’t you think?’
‘I shall never completely understand the English,’ muttered Miss Taylor.
‘Don’t try,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘There are some things that pass all understanding, as they say.’
It was a matter, they said, of submitting a good photograph to the editor of Country Life and asking him to consider featuring one’s daughter in a future issue. Success was by no means guaranteed, even for the highly photogenic: there were many girls in many counties, all most eager to appear, or at least all having parents who were eager on their behalf. And parental support in this was crucial; self-nomination was unheard of, as the very act of putting oneself forward would be incontrovertible proof that one was not suitable.
The photograph had to be reasonably interesting. Country Life girls did not simply sit for the camera against some featureless backdrop but were pictured striking a pose in surroundings that gave an indication of their normal social milieu or talents. The daughters of major gentry – those with stately homes – might be photographed leaning against