the front door to greet him and to thank him most earnestly for insisting on coming to see them, but also to indicate to him, somehow, that the startling renovations instituted by the new mistress of Norland Park – whose costly designer mood boards were propped prominently around the entrance hall – was not to be perceived in any way as indicative of any of the rest of the Dashwood family’s own tastes, wishes or manners. It was Elinor’s aim, flinging open both the leaves of the great front door, to get Sir John through the hall and along to their own unreconstructed sitting room as fast as she could. Only when he was safely ensconced by the fire that Belle had lit especially, alongside the jug of Michaelmas daisies that had been cut from the borders on a day when Fanny was in London, would she quite relax. Sir John looked, Elinor thought, like one of the good-hearted characters from a Dickens novel: broad and healthy, with a ready smile and clothes in optimistic colours. He kissed her warmly, and fraternally, collected a laptop and a bottle of champagne from the boot of the car, and followed her into the house, talking all the way.
‘Of course I remember your dad. Lovely man. Useless with a gun. I say, this is elegant. Look at this floor! We aren’t quite as formal as this at Barton, though Mary would love us to be, but of course, the house is earlier. You’ll love our library. I am very proud of our library. God in heaven, will you look at that staircase! I suppose you lot slid down the bannisters when you were little. Lethal, when you think about it, with a marble floor waiting at the bottom. Mary’s put seagrass over foam rubber in our hall so the ankle-biters don’t smash their skulls. I say they should take their chance, but she won’t have it. As I’m a relation, dear girl, I’m free to tell you that you’re really attractive. I mean that. And I hear that your sisters—’
‘Are much prettier,’ Elinor said quickly.
‘Can’t be. Simply can’t be. I never saw your mother but your dad implied that she was a corker.’
‘She still is,’ Elinor said. She opened the door to the sitting room and stood back for him to enter. ‘See for yourself.’
Belle and Marianne and Margaret all rose from the chairs where they had been waiting, and smiled at him.
‘Golly,’ Sir John said. ‘Golly. Have all my Christmases come at once? Or what? Aren’t you all gorgeous?’
‘Look,’ Sir John said later, expansive with tea and three of the scones that Belle had made that morning, ‘look, I said to Mary, family’s family, and we’ve been bloody lucky.’
He was settled deep in the armchair that Henry used to use, his tea mug in one hand. ‘Bloody lucky,’ he repeated. ‘We are able to live in a great place, employ local people, educate the nippers, have good holidays and a very respectable standard of life. And, I said to Mary, what’s Belle got? No home, no money, Henry dead and those girls. Listen, I said to Mary, blood’s thicker than water. I’d never forgive myself for watching my old pa’s cousins struggling while I book a chalet for Christmas in Méribel. No thank you, I said to Mary. Not my way.’
He took a final swallow from his tea mug and reached to park it on the nearest side table. ‘And here we come to the crunch. I can’t neglect you and your situation while Barton Cottage stands empty. I just can’t. And we can use you girls in the business, I’m sure we can.’ He winked at Marianne. ‘You’d be fantastic in the catalogue.’
‘I hate being photographed,’ Marianne said distantly, ‘I believe those people who think that the camera steals your soul.’
Elinor gave a little gasp. ‘Oh, M, really—’
‘Listen to her!’ Sir John said, roaring with laughter. ‘Just listen. Don’t you love it?’
He beckoned to Margaret. ‘Pass me my laptop, there’s a good girl.’
She came slowly across the room and handed the laptop to him. And then she stood beside him and waited while he fussed over the keys. She said, wearily, ‘Shall I help you?’
He grinned at the screen. ‘Cheeky monkey.’
‘It’d be quicker.’
‘There it is!’ Sir John shouted suddenly. ‘There they are! Pictures!’
Margaret bent.
‘How’s that!’ Sir John exclaimed. ‘A slide show! A slide show of your new home! Barton Cottage. It’s a charmer. You’ll love it.’
Slowly, the four of them formed a semicircle behind the armchair. Sir John made a tremendous show of clicking and flicking until a photograph of an uncompromisingly small modern house on a slope, backed by trees, filled the screen.
‘But,’ Marianne cried in disappointment, ‘it’s new!’
‘I’ve just built it,’ Sir John said with satisfaction. ‘Planning was a complete nightmare but I battled through. I was going to use it as a holiday let.’
‘It’s – lovely,’ Belle said faintly.
‘Perfect spot,’ Sir John said, ‘amazing views, new bathroom, kitchen, utility, the works.’ He glanced at Marianne. ‘You wanted roses round the door?’
‘And maybe thatch …’
‘Marianne, honestly! So ungrateful.’
‘No, she isn’t,’ Sir John said. ‘Just honest. And it’s a comedown after this place. I can see that.’ He looked back at the screen. It now showed an astonishing view down a wooded valley, dramatic and startlingly green.
‘Well?’
Belle deliberately avoided looking at her daughters. She said, in a rush, ‘We’d love it.’
‘Ma—’
‘No,’ she said. She wouldn’t look at them. She looked instead at the next picture, of a steep hill rushing up towards a cloud-dappled sky. ‘We’d love it. It looks charming. Such a – setting.’
Elinor cleared her throat. She said to Sir John, ‘Where is Barton exactly?’
He beamed at her. ‘Near Exeter.’
‘Exeter …’
‘What’s Exeter?’ Margaret said.
‘It’s a place, darling. A lovely historic place in Devon.’
‘Between Dartmoor and Exmoor,’ Sir John said proudly.
Marianne said tragically, ‘I don’t really know where Devon is.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Belle said emphatically. ‘Gorgeous. Next to Cornwall.’
All three girls gazed at her. ‘Cornwall!’
‘Not as far …’ Elinor said, trying not to sound pleading, ‘I have just one more year to go at—’
‘And my music!’ Marianne cried. ‘What about my music?’
Margaret had her fingers in her ears and her eyes shut. ‘Don’t anyone dare say I have to change schools.’
Belle smiled at Sir John.
‘Elinor’s
