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was hoped that the new position at St Swithan
would likewise herald a new beginning, that she might walk freely
without her veil. Instead, she chose not to go out at all.
Transplantation seemed to have a withering effect, so that now she
spends most mornings in bed, her afternoons under medication for
nervous hysteria, and her evenings in books.

    Thou
shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy
neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his
ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour's . . .

    'You
are progressing well, Lydia,' her father interrupts, feeling no need
to hear the entire ten. 'Say a prayer that you remain steadfast. Miss
Pouch, as I mentioned, Emma's drawing and her languages are a worry.
The family cannot afford a finishing governess for her, and you must
make the most of the resources God has chosen to provide.' 'Is that
clear, Emma?' asks Miss Pouch.

    'Yes,
miss. J’entends ce que vous dites. Cela a l’air d’être
de la frime.'

    'Quite,'
says the Reverend. 'Very good. Off with you, then.'

    With
the parley at an end, Miss Pouch ushers her two charges out of the
room for a half–hour of moral instruction before supper. The
Rev. Lambert warms his hands by the fire, opening his mouth wide in
order to admit the soothing warmth into his gums and teeth. Hearing
the door open and close, he closes his mouth, leans back in his
chair, and assumes an aspect of calm forbearance.

    Due
to the chronic indisposition of his wife at this critical period in
his career, he has come to depend more and more upon Lizzy, the maid–
of–all work, a distant cousin taken in out of charity, who has
grown to become a presentable, compliant, womanly presence during his
wife's indisposition.

    'Your
tea, Mr Lambert,' she murmurs, setting the tray upon the table in the
centre of the room. Heavily laced with laudanum, the beverage will
provide hours of comfort, perhaps even sleep.

    Reflected
in the looking–glass, Emma watches her mother, behind the gauze
curtain that surrounds her bed. Coloured glass bottles grace the
side–table beside her Bible, among them the sleeping–draught
she takes in the early evening. Lydia has been put to bed early with
a chill (a window was inadvertently left open during supper), while
Father is dozing in the drawing room, having taken something for his
toothache. Sometimes it seems to Emma that, but for the servants and
cousin Lizzy, she is the only conscious person in the house.

    She
has taken her mother's rouge from the drawer – without asking
permission, but surely Mother will not mind, for she has no use for
it. Her face on the pillow is as white and smooth as if it has been
covered with powder of arsenic – something The Ladies' Home
Companion warns against in the issue spread out on the
dressing–table, which Emma has opened to a feature on
'making–up' by one of the great ladies of the stage.

    It
should be put on in straight lines under the eyes, for a layer of
carmine heightens their brilliancy . . . Emma longs for clarification
of this phrase, for her eyes do not appear any more brilliant, in
fact she looks rather like a harlequin. Three other layers should be
gently placed exactly between the nose and ears, never reaching below
the mouth. This slight touch of rouge will not altogether vulgarise
the face . . . Twice already, she has had to scrub her cheeks clean,
having rendered them, if not exactly vulgar, not exactly ladylike
either. Intently she searches her reflection for signs of the
glamorous woman of the future. 'Oh, bother,' she says to herself.
'You look like a little girl with make–up on. You don't look
like me at all.' Behind the curtain, her mother opens her eyes to
behold a vague form through a silvery mist. 'Who is there?' Birdie
calls out, in a small, frightened voice, thinking it might be a
ghost. 'It is Emma, mother. Don't you recognise me?' Emma climbs
through the curtains, and puts her arms around her mother's