Emma. Alexander McCall Smith

either quickly changed the subject or, when more deliberately cornered by the governess, put it off until later that day. Then, of course, he failed to return to it or managed to ensure that he was not around at a time when it could be discussed. It was obvious that he was reluctant for her to leave, and that he simply wanted the normal routine of the house to continue as it always had, even if there was nothing for her to do. There was no reason why he should not continue to pay her – he hardly noticed her salary going out of his account each month, and, anyway, there was not very much for him to spend his money on, given that he rarely, if ever, left the house.

      Disinclination to discuss a subject that needs to be discussed is never a solution: the topic merely assumes increasing prominence the longer it remains untouched. Every conversation that is then embarked upon, even if on a totally unrelated subject, will be conducted in the fear that it might suddenly be interrupted by the forbidden issue; every pause might be read as a sign that what has been unsaid so far might now suddenly be said. Eventually, of course, the strain tells, and the matter can be put off no more.

      ‘My position,’ blurted out Miss Taylor one morning as she sat at the breakfast table with Mr Woodhouse.

      ‘On what?’ he replied. ‘Your position on what?’ It was a desperate, last-ditch attempt to evade the issue.

      ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You know what I’m talking about: my position here at Hartfield. You may have observed that Emma is no longer here.’

      There were untapped wells of denial. ‘But she is!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s away at university during the term, and then she comes back. How can she be said to be away when she always comes back? If I go to London for a day or two and then return, I can hardly be said to be no longer here.’

      It was an improbable example. Mr Woodhouse had not been to London for eight years, and showed no signs of changing his views on the undesirability of ever doing so.

      ‘She is effectively now in Bath for more weeks of the year than she is here,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘In my view that means that she now lives in Bath. And anyway, she’s eighteen, and an eighteen-year-old does not need a governess.’

      He looked at her with dismay. ‘But eighteen is so young,’ he said. ‘Remember what we were like at eighteen? We knew so little.’

      Miss Taylor shook her head. ‘That’s not the way eighteen-year-olds look at it. When you’re eighteen you imagine you know everything. An eighteen-year-old will not accept guidance, I can assure you.’

      ‘But Emma doesn’t have a mother,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘You’re the closest thing she’s had to a mother since my wife died. If you were to leave …’ He left the sentence unfinished; even this hypothetical talk of departure made him feel bereft.

      ‘But I can’t sit here and pretend to be a governess when both my charges have grown up,’ she said. ‘It just doesn’t make sense.’

      ‘It’s your Presbyterian background,’ muttered Mr Woodhouse.

      She stared at him. ‘What has the Church of Scotland got to do with it? I frankly do not see the connection.’

      ‘If you were a Catholic,’ said Mr Woodhouse, ‘you would have no difficulty with the idea of sitting around and doing nothing. That has never been a problem for Catholicism; it is only the Protestant outlook that makes us feel guilty about not being busy.’

      ‘Oh, really,’ she began, ‘this is nothing to do with John Knox, or Calvin for that matter.’

      ‘I beg you to stay,’ he continued, ‘I beg you, Miss Taylor. If you were to leave, then Emma would feel that a vital part of her home life was lost to her. I know that sounds extreme, but it really is true. You represent stability to her. You represent home.’

      She stared down at the floor, avoiding his anguished gaze. It would be easier to stay than to leave; she would not have all the bother of looking for a new job – who wanted governesses these days? – and she had to concede that Hartfield was extremely comfortable. The salary was generous, too, and since she did not have to pay for her board – or for anything else for that matter – it would enable her to continue to build up her savings, now standing at a total of eighty-seven thousand pounds. Reading that figure, recorded on her quarterly statements of account, filled her with pleasure: a governess had to look after herself and to ensure that she did not find herself, at sixty, penniless and homeless. And that meant saving, and not indulging oneself in non-essentials, unless, of course, a husband should materialise and bring with him financial security. But husbands, she reflected, did not appear that easily; there were plenty of women who lived in hope that a husband might suddenly descend; that they might draw back the curtains one morning and see, standing outside their window, a husband; or that they might take a seat on the train to work and find themselves sitting next to … a husband. That happened, of course, for some, but for others it did not, no matter how hard they wished, and no matter how much they deserved a husband.

      Mr Woodhouse suddenly brightened. ‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought I needed a secretary.’ He looked at Miss Taylor with the air of one about to make an important announcement. ‘You could be my secretary – the pay and conditions would be exactly the same, but the job description would be different. You would not have to worry about being governess to a young woman who was away much of the time.’ He made a gesture of supplication. ‘Please say yes, Anne.’

      She had been about to concede, with a suitable show of reluctance, that she should continue as governess, but this new secretarial post – which she knew was almost certainly a sinecure – would do as well.

      ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I accept.’ She paused. ‘What will the duties be?’

      For a few moments he looked blank, but then he smiled and said, ‘Secretarial.’

      She nodded. There was no need to discuss the matter further, as everything, she imagined, would be exactly the same as it always had been. And that, of course, was what Mr Woodhouse wished for above all else, and what Miss Taylor, for want of anything better, was prepared to accept.