Emma. Alexander Smith McCall

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

       4

      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 a stone pillar, the clear inference being that this was just one of the many stone pillars owned by her father; those who had no stone pillars but who had, say, a small ornamental lake, would be photographed standing in front of this. Those who worked with horses – and this was large group – might have a hunter in the background, or at least a saddle. Dogs were a popular accoutrement, usually Labradors, who would be at the young woman’s side, ready to retrieve or flush birds, enthusiasts all, and given the same appraising scrutiny by the readers, in many cases, as the young woman herself.

      Not everybody, of course, lived in the country, although most of those who were urbanites had at least some country connection. Parents might be described as being of Cheyne Walk, Chelsea and East Woods Manor, Chipping Norton, or whatever it was that provided the country bolthole for those who lived in town. And of course in any such juxtaposition it was Chipping Norton rather than London that counted: anybody could live in London, but not everybody could live in Chipping Norton.

      The accompanying text also revealed the subject’s plans. Many young women were studying something at university – particularly at Durham, Edinburgh or Bristol. Many were planning to work in public relations or in a gallery; one or two – the lucky ones – had already opened their own interior-decoration business. Some were planning to get married in the near future, and the month of the wedding was given so that the readers might know whether they had been invited or passed over. If the wedding was to be the following month and no invitation had yet been received, then the conclusion was inescapable that one was not going. If, however, the marriage was to take place next September or October, and it was only May, then an invitation was still a possibility.

      Mr Woodhouse had never paid much attention to any of this, which he regarded as the sort of thing that appealed to women but not to men. The wording of any caption to Isabella’s photograph could be worked out later – his immediate task was to find a photographer. This sent him off to the Yellow Pages, but he had not even begun to page through these when he remembered that he knew of a photographer who was right on their doorstep, or whose brother was.

      George Knightley was the owner of one of the largest houses in the area, Donwell Abbey (twenty-four bedrooms). At the time at which Mr Woodhouse was thinking of publishing his daughter’s photograph, George was just twenty-five and had owned Donwell for four years. He had inherited not only a house, but looks too, his father having been described in a magazine article as one of the ten most handsome men in England. Knightley père had also been one of the most modest, as he never made any reference to this, or any other accolade that came his way. He had that endangered and most attractive quality: an old-fashioned Englishness, in appearance, garb, and manner, and a generosity of spirit that made him extremely popular in the neighbourhood. This ensured a sympathetic reception for his son when he took over the property. ‘Thank heavens,’ said people. ‘Think of what we might have had, with all these …’ Typically there then followed a listing of those who might have bought Donwell Abbey had it been put on the open market: hedge-fund people, dot-com people, Russian oligarchs, celebrities of various stripes – the list was a long one and generally concluded with a sigh of relief that СКАЧАТЬ