The Intrigue at Highbury

by Carrie Bebris

  “Were they merely begging,” Mr. Knightley asked, “or did any of them physically threaten Miss Smith?”

  “Their verbal assault and proximity frightened her quite enough.”

  “Did any of them speak to you?”

  “The children ran away directly, and an older boy also lumbered off. The woman stared at me hard—she seemed quite surprised—no doubt my sudden appearance startled her. She muttered a few words in her own tongue, then went back to the camp.”

  “It sounds as if the young lady was most fortunate that you happened along when you did,” Darcy said.

  “Indeed. Had my intended departure not been postponed by an errand to Miss Bates’s house, I would have been halfway to Richmond by the time Miss Smith had need of me. As it was, I had to hurry off the moment I saw her safely settled at Hartfield, for my aunt impatiently awaited my arrival.”

  “And this encounter, I am sure, caused significant additional delay. Richmond is what—ten miles from here?”

  “Nine.”

  “That is a long distance to travel by foot,” Darcy said, “particularly if pressed for time.”

  “I planned to walk only part of the way,” he replied. “It was a fine morning, so I sent my servant ahead with my horse by a different path. We were to meet where that road crosses the Richmond road, another mile or two past where the gypsies were camped.”

  Darcy found Mr. Churchill’s account curious. That a man traveling such a distance, departing later than intended, would not only squander time completing part of the journey on foot, but also send his servant and horse ahead by another road entirely, rendering them inaccessible to him should he wish to hasten his pace—had the morning truly been that fine, to inspire such a decision? Moreover, for him to then arrive at the very stretch of road where the gypsies camped, at the exact moment he was needed . . . Frank Churchill’s life truly did seem to be ruled by coincidence.

  Darcy did not believe in coincidence.

  As they talked to Frank, Mr. Cole had entered the lane on horseback. He now dismounted, looking as if he wanted to speak to Mr. Knightley. The magistrate walked forward to confer with the constable in private whilst Darcy continued his interview with Mr. Churchill.

  “I appreciate your speaking with me about this incident on a day when I am sure your thoughts are elsewhere,” Darcy said. “If my wife and I are to recover our stolen possessions, time is of the essence. As it is, I was just going into Ford’s to replace some necessities. I heard there has also been a peddler in the village of late. Have you, by chance, seen him?”

  “Not today. He stopped at Randalls the day we arrived from London—I saw him talking to Mrs. Weston, and later to my uncle. He was here in Broadway Lane the day before yesterday. I bought a very nice snuff box from him.”

  “Did you purchase anything else? Or did your uncle? I am hoping he has a broad selection of merchandise.”

  “I bought only the snuff box. My uncle bought nothing at all—at least, not when we saw him here in the village. In fact, he barely spoke to Mr. Deal.”

  “I understand his wares include gypsy-made remedies for various complaints. Did he show you any of those? The robbery greatly upset my wife, and she now suffers a headache that has defied traditional cures.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. I know nothing of any medicines. I suggest you consult Mr. Perry, the village apothecary.”

  “I shall, thank you.”

  Mr. Knightley finished his business with Mr. Cole and rejoined them, apologizing for the interruption.

  “If Mr. Darcy has no more questions regarding the gypsy incident, I am expected back at Randalls,” Frank said.

  His account had raised a considerable number of additional questions in Darcy’s mind, but none he wished to pose at present. “I believe we have done for now.”

  After Mr. Churchill left them, Mr. Knightley revealed the subject of his conversation with the constable. “Cole found evidence of a recent encampment, this time on the Portsmouth road. The gypsies, however, have fled. He will recruit some men and follow their trail.”

  “Let us hope he finds them. Meanwhile, Frank Churchill claims he has not seen Hiram Deal today.” He gazed down the lane in the direction Mr. Cole had taken.

  When he received no reply, Darcy turned. Mr. Knightley stared up the lane in the opposite direction, his attention commanded by a vehicle just entering the village.

  A peddler’s cart.

  Twelve

  Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton . . . —self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood.

  —Emma

  Did I not mention the bird?”

  Emma stifled an exasperated huff. “No, Harriet, you did not.” And now the imminent entrance of a visitor threatened to curtail discussion of the one point of information that might prove useful to Mrs. Darcy.

  “It was a great black thing—a crow or a raven or something like that. It swooped in just as the children swarmed around me, then circled above. Heavens, its caw was worse than their begging.”

  “Were they not frightened by it?” Mrs. Darcy asked.

  “They paid it no mind at all, just kept pestering me.” Harriet opened the door. “Oh, Mrs. Elton! Mr. Elton! I hardly expected—what an honor, for you to call! Why, I believe this is the first time I have had the pleasure of a visit from you.”

  Emma stiffened. The Eltons took advantage of every opportunity to snub Harriet. Depend upon it, this social call had an ulterior purpose, and Emma had little doubt as to its nature. They were come to gossip.

  About her.

  More specifically, about her deadly dinner party. It had truly been too much to hope that word of it had not spread throughout the village like wildfire. And of course the Eltons could be counted upon to fan the flames. If they were calling at Abbey Mill Farm, doubtless they had already circulated the news among those few of Highbury’s better families that had not been personally present to witness the debacle.

  Emma glanced at Mrs. Darcy, who studied her with interest. Emma realized that her countenance had momentarily betrayed her dislike of the new arrivals. “Mr. Elton is our parish vicar,” she said simply. Mrs. Darcy impressed Emma as an astute woman. A few minutes in the Eltons’ company would reveal every essential about the couple.

  “It is indeed our first visit to you as Mrs. Robert Martin,” Mrs. Elton said. “I just realized this morning that we had not yet acknowledged your new situation—our parish duties keep us so occupied that I declare I do not know where the time goes! But I told Mr. E. that we must correct the oversight immediately, and so here we are.”

  She shouldered her way past Harriet and into the sitting room, where she was surprised to discover Emma. “Mrs. Knightley! I daresay you are the last person I expected to find paying social calls today. I should think the events of last night would continue to absorb your attention.”

  Emma could not imagine why, when they were absorbing enough of Mrs. Elton’s for them both. “There is little more to be done for Mr. Churchill, beyond treating his passing with respect.”

  Harriet, who had closed the door and now stood behind the Eltons, regarded them all with wide eyes. “ ‘Mr. Churchill’s passing’? Has something happened to Frank Churchill?”

  “To his uncle,” Emma said before either of the Eltons could leap in with their version of events. “Edgar Churchill took ill and died last night. It is all very sad for Frank, certainly, but we can rejoice in the fact that Mr. Churchill lived long enough to celebrate his nephew’s marriage.” She hoped that would put an end to the subject.

  Mrs. Elton pushed aside a pair of pillows to seat herself on the sofa. A pat on the space beside her commanded her husband to sit. Only the width of the small table now separated Emma from the couple, a proximity she
found unpleasantly intimate.

  “It was shocking to witness his violent death throes right in the middle of dinner,” Mrs. Elton said. “Has Perry yet determined what made him so ill?”

  Emma had no intention of offering information to feed Mrs. Elton’s appetite for scandal. She left the question unanswered and instead introduced the couple to Mrs. Darcy.

  “Mr. Knightley and Mr. Darcy are acquainted through the Earl of Chatfield,” she added. Let Mrs. Elton, with her Maple Grove and its barouche-landau, ruminate on that.

  Mr. Elton appeared impressed. “Did you attend the Donwell dinner party?” he asked Mrs. Darcy. “I do not recall having seen you last night.”

  “My husband and I arrived late to Donwell Abbey.”

  “That is too bad,” Mrs. Elton said. “It was a nice little affair while it lasted. Almost equal to the soirees I have attended at Maple Grove. Everybody in Highbury is talking about it.”

  Of that, Emma had no doubt.

  Mrs. Elton looked about the room with a critical eye. “What a charming little house you have. Exceedingly cozy.” Her gaze fell upon the paper Emma had left on the table. “What is this?”

  “A charade.” Harriet moved forward to rescue it.

  “Oh—do such games still amuse you? Since my own marriage, I have not time for such trifles.” She took up the page before Harriet reached it. “Mr. E., no doubt you can solve this, for it begins, ‘A place of worship . . . ’” She read the remaining lines aloud. “Well, that is just delightful, Harriet. I suppose it must have occupied Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Darcy for some time.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Knightley guessed it immediately,” said Harriet, “and Mrs. Darcy soon after.”

  “Indeed? And what is the solution? I would work it out myself, but I do not want to miss a moment’s conversation while I study it.”

  “My dear, it is Abbey Mill Farm,” Mr. Elton said.

  “Oh—Well, I suppose it is. How clever. Clever in its simplicity.” She cast the paper aside. Harriet stared at it a minute, looking very much as if she wanted to snatch it up from the table and spare it from any further notice by Mrs. Elton. But Mrs. Elton appearing to have done with it, Harriet simply found a seat and perched on its edge.

  “I am so glad, Harriet, that you are able to intersperse diversions with your new duties as a wife. Of course, my own obligations as the vicar’s helpmeet consume so many of my hours.—Not that I am complaining, mind you. It is work I do quite willingly. As, I am sure, do you. You must be very happy in your new establishment.”

  Harriet began to reply, but Mrs. Elton’s interest in her happiness did not extend so far as wanting to hear any assurance of it. Before Harriet had uttered two words, Mrs. Elton brought the discussion back to her favorite subject—herself.

  “On our way here, we called upon the Bates ladies.” She cast a pointed glance at Emma. “It was kind of you to provide Miss Bates with a new gown. I believe it was almost as becoming as the one I helped her make for the wedding. I refer to Frank and Jane’s wedding, of course, but who knows? Perhaps she will participate in another wedding before long.”

  Emma refused to pose the question Mrs. Elton sought to provoke. Harriet, however, could not resist.

  “Has someone in the village announced an engagement?”

  “No—not yet. But I have hopes that Miss Bates herself will find such happiness as we four married ladies enjoy.”

  “Miss Bates! Imagine that! With whom?”

  “Why, Harr—no, I ought not say a word! But I suspect Miss Bates has lately been on the mind of a certain eligible man in the village.”

  “Harry Simon?” Emma’s tone revealed what she thought of Mrs. Elton’s choice.

  Mrs. Elton appeared startled by Emma’s penetration. “Mr. Simon? Why ever would you think I refer to him?”

  “Were you not about to say the name ‘Harry’?”

  “Harry? Heavens, no! I began to say ‘Harriet.’ ”

  Yes, Emma thought. And the Prince of Wales was engaged to dine at the vicarage on Wednesday.

  “Harriet . . . of course,” Emma said. “Well, I am relieved you did not mean Mr. Simon. Miss Bates can do better.”

  Mrs. Elton’s lips curved into a forced smile inconsonant with the haughty glare of her eyes. “I know you cannot mean one of the gentlemen you put in her way last night. None of them have come calling today.”

  Nor would they, Emma ruefully acknowledged to herself. They were all fled. Fellow diners dropping dead hardly encouraged the forming of romantic attachments. Edgar Churchill’s death had utterly undone Emma’s plan.

  “I would say that left to her own resources, or anybody else’s, Miss Bates’s chances of marrying are rather hopeless,” Mrs. Elton continued. “Anybody’s resources but mine, that is.”

  Emma froze as a dreadful thought entered her mind. Mrs. Elton had pointedly observed that none of Emma’s potential suitors had visited Miss Bates this morning. Had Harry Simon? Was he in the cramped sitting room on Broadway Lane wooing the spinster even now? She must call upon Miss Bates immediately to discourage whatever machinations Mrs. Elton had initiated.

  “Well, we shall see whether aught comes of your efforts.” She picked up her basket and began to take leave of Harriet.

  The moment she escaped, Emma strode away from the farmhouse at a pace that would have left most other companions struggling to keep up with her. Mrs. Darcy, however, matched her gait with no difficulty, a feat that might have raised her still further in Emma’s regard had Emma’s mind not been altogether employed by apprehension over what evils could even then be occurring in a certain brick house in Highbury.

  “I take it we have another errand to perform?” Mrs. Darcy asked.

  “We must call upon Miss Bates directly. I hope to find her unengaged—in all senses of the word.”

  “Is your objection to Mr. Simon, or to Mrs. Elton’s presumption?”

  Despite her ire, Emma noted with approval Mrs. Darcy’s discernment. Her new acquaintance had more quickness about her than did any of Emma’s other female associates, even her beloved Mrs. Weston.

  “Mr. Simon is, sadly, not altogether right in the mind. And Miss Bates is a spinster who already has an elderly, deaf mother to care for—she does not need the additional burden of caring for him. Further, while Mr. Simon seems a gentle man, he is not a gentleman—he is a common farmer. Miss Bates deserves a more genteel husband. Meanwhile, Mrs. Elton—” She paused. Prudence cautioned her to censor her speech to such a recent acquaintance, but vexation spurred her forward. “Mrs. Elton is a vain, selfish creature whose motives for arranging a match between them have nothing to do with the happiness of the principals. I am determined to find a more appropriate suitor for Miss Bates.”

  “Have you someone particular in mind?”

  “There were several candidates at last night’s party, but they have left the village along with the other guests.” She silently cursed once again the ill fortune that had brought Edgar Churchill’s death to their door. Why could he not have expired a se’nnight hence, in Yorkshire?

  “Is there no one local?”

  Emma considered whether there might be someone in Highbury whom she had overlooked, but could think of no one. Everybody knew Miss Bates; everybody would agree that she was a kind, good-natured woman. However, everybody in the village had also spent decades enduring her tedious chatter. “I believe Miss Bates’s chances are better with someone who has not known her all her life. I am sure an eligible candidate will present himself.” They had reached the village. Emma glanced down the lane and released a sigh. “Somewhere.”

  They headed straight for the Bates house. As it came into view, two people were just entering it: Jane Churchill and Thomas Dixon.

  The single Thomas Dixon.

  Emma’s gaze followed him through the door, but her mind was already upstairs with Miss Bates. Thomas Dixon might not possess a large fortune, but he had enough money to pay his tailor bills. And he had been amiable last night
, which was more than she could say about Mr. Nodd, the major, or Mr. Wynnken.

  Thomas Dixon possessed wit and taste, pleasant looks, cultivated manners, and an extraordinary wardrobe. Why had she not considered him before?

  Thirteen

  “I planned the match from that hour.”

  —Emma Woodhouse, Emma

  Elizabeth followed Mrs. Knightley up the narrow staircase. They were admitted to a small apartment, wherein a middle-aged woman was receiving the two visitors who had just arrived.

  “. . . have been thinking about you all morning, Jane. Poor Frank! What a dreadful turn of events. He must be beside himself. So good of you to accompany Jane here, Mr. Dixon. And look! Now here is Mrs. Knightley and . . .”—she bestowed upon Elizabeth an uncertain but welcoming smile—“and . . .”

  “This is Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Knightley said. “Her husband is a friend of Mr. Knightley, and they are visiting from Derbyshire. Mrs. Darcy, I present Miss Bates—” Their hostess’s smile brightened as Elizabeth acknowledged the introduction with a nod. Mrs. Knightley gestured toward an elderly woman knitting beside the fire. “—her mother, Mrs. Bates, and her niece, the former Jane Fairfax, now Mrs. Frank Churchill. Finally, Mr. Thomas Dixon.”

  Elizabeth recognized the Bates ladies as two of the guests who had been departing upon her own arrival at Donwell. Jane Churchill was a comely young woman of perhaps two-and-twenty, with dark hair and grey eyes; not a classic beauty, but striking nonetheless. Mr. Dixon was considerably older, his temples touched with grey, yet still quite handsome. He was dressed impeccably in a cut-away green frock coat over a striped waistcoat, cream nankeen breeches, and highly polished Hessian boots. A monocle hung from a chain round his neck.

  “Friends of Mr. Knightley? Well, you are certainly welcome here!” Miss Bates exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Mother? This is Mrs. Darcy.” She raised her voice. “Darcy. Oh! Do sit down, Mrs. Darcy—yes, right there. Mrs. Knightley, take my seat. No, no—it is no trouble at all. We have a spare chair in the bedroom. Patty, bring in the spare chair for me. There, now—we shall all be quite comfortable.”