“This party is Mr. Weston’s opportunity to act as a father by his son,” Emma finished. “And you want all to go off perfectly.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Weston admitted. “Do thank Mr. Knightley once more for his trouble on our behalf. I hope you already know that you have my unending gratitude.”
“Mr. Knightley considers it no trouble, and neither do I,” Emma said. “He has great respect for all of you, and has always held a high opinion of Jane Fairfax.”
Jane, like Frank, had been raised elsewhere; left orphaned and fortuneless as a young girl, she had been taken in by her father’s friend Colonel Campbell and educated along with his own daughter in London. Her frequent visits to her aunt and grandmother, however, had given all Highbury a proprietary interest in her, and she was generally acknowledged to be one of the most pretty and accomplished young ladies the village had ever produced. Emma, however, had never cultivated a close friendship with Jane, despite their being the same age; she had found Jane’s reserved nature unamiable.
Their ambling had taken them round the back of the house, where a peddler’s cart stood just outside the servants’ entrance.
“Now, there is an unusual sight,” Emma said. “I cannot recall the last time a peddler visited Highbury.”
“Oh, how fortunate!” Mrs. Weston said. “I am in need of lace for a handkerchief I am making for Jane to carry with her on her wedding day. I could not find anything at Ford’s that quite suited, and thought I would have to obtain some when I arrived in London. Perhaps this peddler has something more to my liking and can spare me the necessity of seeking it in town.”
“You would willingly forgo an opportunity to visit a London lace merchant? You so seldom go to town, and have not been at all since Anna was born.”
“Only in the interest of expediency—our time in London will be so brief, and most of it commanded by others. And only if the peddler has something that indeed satisfies my purpose.”
They went within, where they found a goodly assortment of wares arranged on the kitchen worktables, and nearly every servant at Randalls arranged round their seller. There were cooking utensils and sewing notions, hammered tins and wooden boxes, garden implements and currycombs, baskets and tools. One of the footmen examined a set of fire-irons, while Mr. Weston’s valet inspected a razor.
The female servants, however, all devoted their full attention to the peddler.
He was a respectable-looking fellow, a tall, well-built man of years that approximated Mr. Knightley’s. His clothing and person were neat and clean. He wore his hair short, but the brown locks would not be tamed, and they curled round his head in a willful fashion that was not unbecoming. Lively, intelligent blue eyes and gentlemanlike features formed a countenance that was altogether pleasant to look upon.
At least, all the maids seemed of that opinion as they listened to him describe the uses of various cordials in a case he balanced on his left arm against his chest. “I obtained these directly from a gypsy herb-woman. They are great healers, the gypsies, and I’ve a fine stock of remedies for whatever might ail you or anyone in the household.”
Emma wondered what the village apothecary might think of the peddler’s infringing on his business. Her father would be quite discomposed by the notion of anyone’s curative talents exceeding those of his most capable and valued Mr. Perry.
“This,” he continued, holding up a small bottle for all to see, “contains elixir of a different sort.” A mischievous cast overtook his expression. He looked at one of the youngest maids. She was a pretty, well-mannered girl, the daughter of Hartfield’s coachman. “What do you suppose it does?” he asked her.
The housemaid blushed at having the handsome peddler’s full attention directed toward herself. “I—I cannot guess.”
“A sip before bed, and dream of he you’ll wed.”
One of the kitchen maids giggled. “Hannah’s too young to be thinkin’ such thoughts.” Despite the scullery maid’s appearing not much older than Hannah, her expression suggested that the peddler himself would play a prominent role in her own reveries, with or without the assistance of any draught.
“No one is too young, or too old, to dream.” The peddler’s voice deepened the flush of Hannah’s cheeks. “Here.” He offered the philtre to Hannah.
“But I haven’t money for such—”
He shook his head. “It is yours.” As she timidly accepted the gift, he winked. “But you must promise to tell me one year hence if it worked.”
Hannah lowered her eyes, but smiled.
He set the box upon the closest table, and it was only then that Emma made a startling discovery: The peddler had but one hand. His left arm simply ended at the wrist. Whether the appendage had been absent from birth or lost later, she could not determine. It appeared, however, that he enjoyed full use of the arm, and had learned to compensate for the missing hand so proficiently that he was scarcely impaired by its lack. He handled his merchandise with dexterity that rivaled that of any ten-fingered trader, and handled his audience still more deftly.
Emma perceived something vaguely familiar about Mr. Deal, but could not identify precisely what inspired the impression. As the peddler enumerated the superior attributes of a copper teakettle, he caught sight of Emma and Mrs. Weston, and offered a silent bow. The gesture alerted the housekeeper to their presence, and she now commanded her staff’s attention.
“Everybody has been idle long enough,” she announced. “Should you want an item for use in household duties, I will consider it. If you care to purchase anything for yourself, do so and return to work.”
The subsequent exchange of money and merchandise required some minutes to complete, particularly as every maid found at least one trinket without which she could no longer continue to exist, and must pay for with a bright-eyed smile along with her pennies. The peddler answered the scullery maid’s overeager query about whether he would return to Randalls before leaving the neighborhood with a simple, “If your mistress permits me,” and refrained altogether from acknowledging her intimation regarding a private presentation of his goods.
The housekeeper, overhearing, admonished the scullery maid with a disapproving look. “Get along with you now, Nellie.”
With a last hopeful smile, Nellie purchased a philtre identical to the one the peddler had given Hannah.
When the room at last cleared, the housekeeper introduced him to her mistress. “This is Hiram Deal, ma’am. A new trader in these parts, but my sister up in Richmond mentioned him in a letter this summer as being an honest seller.”
“Deal is a fitting name for a peddler,” Emma observed. “Do you come from a family of merchants?”
His responding smile was easy; he had heard the question before, likely many times.
“It is indeed an apt name, ma’am. Though whether I was born to it because I was meant to be a trader, or became a trader because I was born to the name, I cannot say, for I never knew my father and inherited naught but my name from him. It has, however, served me well, for it is a name my customers remember, and I take care that the recollection is a favorable one.”
“Well, Mr. Deal, you have an opportunity to make another favorable impression if you can assist me this morning,” said Mrs. Weston. “I am in need of some fine lace.”
“Most certainly, ma’am. White?”
“Yes, for a bride’s handkerchief.”
“I have several exquisite laces on my cart—including a superior Brussels that might be the very thing you seek. Shall I bring them inside for your inspection?”
Mrs. Weston instructed the housekeeper to conduct Mr. Deal to the sitting room, where she and Emma could evaluate the laces in greater comfort, and retrieved the handkerchief. The peddler soon appeared with half a dozen laces, which he spread upon a table along with other goods of interest to ladies.
The laces were all lovely, and Mrs. Weston had difficulty making a selection. After soliciting Emma’s opinion, she narrowed her choice to three, then two.
Finality, however, eluded her.
She sighed and looked to Emma once more. “I want the handkerchief to be perfect, something Jane will cherish as a keepsake.”
“Jane Fairfax would treasure a rag if it came from you, so appreciative is she for the affection with which you have welcomed her to your family. There is no wrong choice.”
“All the same . . .” She fingered the more expensive of the two laces. “This one, do you think? I want her to know how truly happy I am in the connexion.”
Emma preferred the other, and from her limited knowledge of Jane Fairfax’s taste, thought it the better selection. Jane was not a person to equate the cost of a gift with the amount of sentiment with which it was offered; neither, for that matter, was Mrs. Weston. Emma was about to assure her that neither Jane nor anyone else was likely to judge Mrs. Weston’s fondness for her new daughter-in-law by the difference in price between one lace and another—particularly another that nobody would ever know had even been under consideration—when Mr. Deal interjected.
“If I may offer a suggestion, ma’am?” He nodded toward the lace in her hand. “That lace is rather fragile, and therefore might not hold up as well to the emotions of the day. The bride—Miss Fairfax, I believe you called her?—would perhaps be better served by a handkerchief edged in the stronger lace, so that she can use it freely without anxiety over ruining so valued a gift. And the less delicate lace is just as lovely.”
Mrs. Weston, ever practical, appreciated his sensible advice, and Emma admired his sincere interest in providing his customer with the item best suited to her needs rather than the one most profitable to him. The matter was decided.
“The pattern complements the style in which you embroidered the monogram,” Mr. Deal added as he set aside the other laces. “I think both you and the new ‘Mrs. C——’ will be well pleased with your choice.”
“Mrs. Churchill,” Mrs. Weston provided. “In but a few days’ time, she shall be Mrs. Frank Churchill.”
“Indeed? I once knew a family by the name of Churchill. That was a long time ago, however, and far from here.” He drew his brows together. “Forgive me, ma’am, but you said Miss Fairfax was marrying your son, and I understood your name to be Weston. I hope I have not been improperly addressing you all this while?”
“No. Frank has taken his uncle’s name, and lives with him.”
Mr. Deal asked no more, only wished the couple joy. He then begged leave to show the other items he had brought, and Emma and Mrs. Weston spent a delightful interlude perusing items they had not known they wanted until laid before them. A set of hair combs caught Emma’s eye, along with several other treasures. Each had a history—where it had been fashioned, how he had procured it, lore surrounding its use, or perhaps an anecdote about a previous owner. Mr. Deal was a natural storyteller, and Emma found herself quite entertained.
The chime of the case clock announced that she had stayed far longer than she had intended. As she had brought no money with her to Randalls, she invited the peddler to wait upon her at Hartfield the following day with those items that she had determined were indispensible to her continued happiness. Resolved against being too easily persuaded to part with all of her pin money, she left the combs among his wares for purchase by some other lady.
She was nearly home before she realized that the peddler had entirely distracted her from the original purpose of her call. Emma, too, had gone to Randalls with the intent of solicitation—winning Mrs. Weston’s approval of her plan for Miss Bates.
Three
[Miss Bates] was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. . . . She loved every body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings. . . . The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself.
—Emma
Emma wished Mr. Deal could sell her a physic that would cure her dilemma. The matter of Miss Bates, and how to present her to best advantage at the Donwell party, was proving exceedingly troublesome. Miss Bates looked every one of her more than forty years, and her wardrobe even older. Seeking inspiration, she decided to call upon Miss Bates at home.
In her eagerness to advance her plan, Emma forgot that today was Wednesday. And in the Bates house, Wednesdays marked the arrival of Jane Fairfax’s weekly letters, from which no visitor could escape. The letter must be read aloud, in full, with spontaneous explications by Miss Bates in case the listener failed to realize or appreciate the significance of any particulars. And, of course, select passages of the text must be repeated, sometimes twice or thrice at successively higher volumes, for old Mrs. Bates’s comprehension.
“Jane says that all is in readiness for the wedding.” Miss Bates adjusted her reading spectacles, which fit her loosely about the ears and defiantly slid down her nose every time she glanced at the letter. “By this day week, our Jane will be Mrs. Frank Churchill! Mother and I are so excited to be going to London—we have not been since before my father died. Jane writes that Colonel Campbell is sending his own carriage to collect us, so that we do not have to travel by coach. Did you hear that, Mother? Colonel Campbell is sending his carriage. His carriage.”
Mrs. Bates, seated by the fire in an upholstered chair that had seen more prosperous years, looked up from her knitting and smiled. From the blank expression of her eyes, Emma doubted she had heard a word. Her head bent back down over her needles, her hair so white that one could barely distinguish the thin strands from the mobcap that covered most of them.
“Only imagine—a year ago we had no notion of a wedding,” Miss Bates said. “We of course thought Jane would be working as a governess by now, as with no fortune of her own, those were her expectations. What a surprise it was to us all—was it not a great surprise, Mother?—when we learned she was secretly engaged to Frank Churchill during the whole of her visit here this past spring and summer! And neither of them able to say a word for fear of his being disinherited if his aunt learned of it.”
Though Emma pretended to accord Miss Bates her full attention, this was all information she had heard many times before. It was the spinster’s appearance, not words, that commandeered her interest. Her faded blue morning dress needed to be taken in, but was so worn as to make the effort futile. Beneath the thin muslin, however, Miss Bates had a pleasing figure—neither too plump nor too thin—and a darker shade of fabric might bring out the amber color of her eyes.
Emma knew that Miss Bates had made a new gown to wear to the wedding ceremony in London. Initially, Emma had attempted to offer guidance on the style and creation of the gown, but then the officious Mrs. Elton had inserted herself in the business and would have her own way about it. She had so commandeered the project that Emma had washed her hands of it rather than subject herself to Mrs. Elton’s pretensions as an arbiter of fashion. She now wondered at the result.
Miss Bates at last paused her discourse long enough for Emma to interject. “Have you finished the dress you plan to wear to the wedding?”
“Indeed, yes! Why, just yesterday I stitched on the last bead and Mrs. Elton declared it done. Would you care to see it?” Miss Bates set aside the letter and hurried into the bedroom, talking the whole way. “It was so generous of Frank—a new dress for me, and another for my mother. We are fortunate that Jane found such a fine young man. She says she never imagined when she went to Weymouth with the Campbells last autumn that she would fall in love.”
Miss Bates continued to voice her boundless gratitude to Frank Churchill, for not only having accompanied Jane to Layton and Shears to select the silk (“Layton and Shears—one of London’s finest linen-drapers!”), but also having paid for it (“Mr. Churchill insisted!”); for having traveled all the way from London to deliver the parcel himself (“and what a parcel it was! Not merely the fabric, but also a selection of trimmings!”); and for having also brou
ght the most recent edition of Ackermann’s Repository so that she might see plates of the latest fashions.
She returned with the gown. To Emma’s dismay, it was far too youthful for a middle-aged spinster. Indeed, Emma herself would not have worn it, even at her coming-out. Double flounces, ells of ribbon, and abundant beadwork competed so vigorously for attention that one wanted to shut one’s eyes against the assault. Rather than choosing from the trimmings Frank had sent, she must have used them all.
Even Miss Bates regarded the dress with apprehension. “It is a little . . . fancier . . . than I am used to. But Mrs. Elton insisted this was ‘all the thing.’ It was so kind of her to help me, for I do not keep up with the styles as she does. Imagine—me, wearing such a fine dress! I think I shall be afraid to sit down in it.”
Mrs. Elton’s taste in attire appeared ostentatious enough on Mrs. Elton; on Miss Bates, the gown would look ridiculous. But anything was an improvement over the tired dresses that comprised the rest of her wardrobe, and Emma supposed she had no choice but to encourage her to wear it to the Donwell dinner party. Unless . . .
Unless the spinster had a more suitable alternative.
As Miss Bates rattled on about the process of constructing the gown, Emma’s mind turned upon hemlines and sleeve lengths for an entirely different garment. She would surprise Miss Bates with a new gown for the Donwell affair. It would have to be simple, for there was little time in which to make it, but a plainer dress would become Miss Bates more. It would certainly be more to the wearer’s taste. Indeed, Emma could have the pleasure of presenting to Miss Bates the dress she had wanted all along.
Material could be obtained at Ford’s—she had seen a pretty emerald-green sarcenet the last time she was there—and Miss Bates had just uttered her measurements from the dress newly completed. (At last, an advantage to the spinster’s repetitive discourse.) There was not enough time for Emma to do the sewing, even if she borrowed Hannah from Randalls, as she often did for needlework. She would have to bring in the London seamstress who had made her own wedding clothes.
The Intrigue at Highbury Page 3
