Emma Brown A Novel

by Boylan, Clare

• ISBN13: 9780670032976
• ISBN10: 0670032972
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2004-04-12
• Publisher: Viking Adult

Summary

Charlotte Brontë’s death in 1855 deprived the world of what might have been her masterpiece. The twenty unfinished manuscript pages that are the nucleus of Emma Brownsignaled her most compelling work since Jane Eyre—the story of a young girl, Matilda, brought by her father to a small school in provincial Victorian England. The school, Fuschia Lodge, is foundering, so its headmistress is delighted to welcome a new pupil—especially one so elaborately dressed, with an apparently rich father who is quite the gentleman.” But when Matilda’s tuition goes unpaid and it comes time to make arrangements for the Christmas holidays, she is shocked to find that the identity of the father, Conway Fitzgibbon—like the address he left behind—does not exist.So who is the mysterious Matilda? She herself will not say, and it falls to a local gentleman, Mr. Ellin, and a childless widow, Isabel Chalfont, to unravel the truth. From the drawing rooms of English country society to the grimy backstreets of London’s seamiest reaches, from the dandified members of the city’s elite clubs to the blowsy ranks of its brothels, Emma Brownfollows the search—first for Matilda’s true identity and then for the girl herself.With all the wit and pathos of the novel’s originator, Clare Boylan’s accomplished pen has seamlessly developed Brontë’s sketch of a girl without a past into a stunning portrait of a Victorian society with a shameful secret at its heart.

Author Biography

Clare Boylan is the author of seven novels, which include Holy Pictures, Room for a Single Lady, Black Baby, and Beloved Stranger. She has also written several works of nonfiction.

Excerpts

Chapter One 6 We all seek an ideal in life. A pleasant fancy began to visit me in a certain year, that perhaps the number of human beings is few who do not find their quest at some era of life for some space more or less brief. I had certainly not found mine in youth, though the strong belief I held of its existence sufficed through all my brightest and freshest time to keep me hopeful. I had not found it in maturity. I was become resigned never to find it. I had lived certain dim years entirely tranquil and unexpectant. And now I was not sure but something was hovering around my hearth which pleased me wonderfully.Look at it, reader. Come into my parlour and judge for yourself whether I do right to care for this thing. First you may scan me, if you please. We shall go on better together after a satisfactory introduction and due apprehension of identity. My name is Mrs Chalfont. I am a widow. My house is good, and my income such as need not check the impulse either of charity or a moderate hospitality. I am not young, nor yet old. There is no silver yet in my hair, but its yellow lustre is gone. In my face, wrinkles are yet to come, but I have almost forgotten the days when it wore any bloom. I married when I was very young. I lived for fifteen years a life, which, whatever its trials, could not be called stagnant. Then for five years I was alone, and, having no children, desolate. Lately, Fortune, by a somewhat curious turn of her wheel, placed in my way an interest and a companion. The neighbourhood where I live is pleasant enough, its scenery agreeable, and its society civilized, though not numerous. About a mile from my house there is a ladies? school, established but latelynot more than three years since. The conductresses of this school were of my acquaintances; and though I cannot say that they occupied the very highest place in my opinionfor they had brought back from some months? residence abroad, for finishing purposes, a good deal that was fantastic, affected and pretentiousyet I awarded them some portion of that respect which seems the fair due of all women who face life bravely, and try to make their own way by their own efforts. About a year after the Misses Wilcox opened their school, when the number of their pupils was as yet exceedingly limited, and when, no doubt, they were looking out anxiously enough for augmentation, the entrance-gate to their little drive was one day thrown back to admit a carriage?a very handsome, fashionable carriage,? Miss Mabel Wilcox said, in narrating the circumstance afterwardsand drawn by a pair of really splendid horses. The sweep up the drive, the loud ring at the door- bell, the bustling entrance into the house, the ceremonious admission to the bright drawing-room, roused excitement enough in Fuchsia Lodge. Miss Wilcox repaired to the reception-room in a pair of new gloves, and carrying in her hand a handkerchief of French cambric. She found a gentleman seated on the sofa, who, as he rose up, appeared a tall, fine-looking personage; at least she thought him so, as he stood with his back to the light. He introduced himself as Mr Fitzgibbon, inquired if Miss Wilcox had a vacancy, and intimated that he wished to intrust to her care a new pupil in the shape of his daughter. This was welcome news, for there was many a vacancy in Miss Wilcox?s schoolroom; indeed, her establishment was as yet limited to the select number of three, and she and her sisters were looking forward with anything but confidence to the balancing of accounts at the close of their first half-year. Few objects could have been more agreeable to her then than that to which, by the wave of a hand, Mr Fitzgibbon now directed her attentionthe figure of a child standing near the drawing-room window. Had Miss Wilcox?s establishment boasted fuller rankshad she indeed entered well on that course of prosperity which in after years an undeviating attention