The Intrigue at Highbury Page 19

  “Might the author be the ‘unkind individual’?” Emma offered.

  “Unkind persons generally do not recognize that failing in themselves,” Mrs. Darcy said. “If this was written by someone in attendance at either party, it most likely refers to one of the other guests.”

  “The writer went to this much trouble to advise us that someone unkind was among the company? One need look no further than Mrs. Elton to know that.”

  “Your dislike of the vicar’s wife is blinding you, Emma,” said Mr. Knightley. “I believe Mrs. Elton is neither the composer of this message, nor the person the author wishes to bring to our attention.”

  “You spoke with every guest following both parties,” Emma said, “and most of them are people you have known for years. Of all the individuals present, who is more unkind than Mrs. Elton?”

  “The person bent on killing the Churchills.”

  Emma was silent. Despite the mounting evidence that Edgar Churchill’s death was no accident, and Frank’s indisposition no coincidence, she did not want to believe that a murderer roamed Highbury. She cast about for some better explanation, one that would not involve such appalling suspicions about so many persons of her acquaintance.

  “I think our anonymous correspondent wants us to know that the unkind individual was one of the guests,” Mr. Knightley said more gently. “The poisoner was at the party.”

  Twenty-two

  Mr. Elton had retreated . . . looking (Emma trusted) very foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though growing very like her.

  —Emma

  The following day saw an excursion to the vicarage, contender for the title Elevated Religious House.

  Elizabeth found it neither elevated nor particularly religious. It sat in a low spot at the end of Vicarage Lane, rising only by virtue of its being the only two-story domicile on the road, and the one in best repair. It must be approached by passing several lesser dwellings exhibiting various degrees of deterioration and equally assorted shabbily clothed children spilling out of them in search of more entertaining occupation than could be had by assisting their mothers within. At present, these fair innocents found diversion in watching three crows compete for the choicest parts of an unfortunate creature that looked to have once been a squirrel.

  Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley left the children—and the crows—to their amusement and continued towards the vicarage. They were on a scavenging errand of their own.

  Mrs. Knightley was determined to prove Mrs. Elton the author of the two enigmatic messages, her motive malice, and their meaning mundane. Elizabeth hoped to induce the vicar’s wife to betray more knowledge of the poisonings than Darcy and Mr. Knightley had been able to draw out of her, and that perhaps she herself did not realize she possessed.

  “Let us hope she is at home.” Mrs. Knightley lifted the knocker, a heavy, ornate piece of ironwork more suited to a mansion than a clergyman’s abode. “I would just as soon not have to return.”

  Seen up close, the vicarage boasted more age than beauty; its architecture was uninspired, and it sat so near to the road that the windowed front parlor might have staged theatricals for passers-by. Within, for all of Mrs. Elton’s obvious effort, the house lacked the charm of even Harriet Martin’s smaller cottage. While the sitting room of Abbey Mill Farm was crowded with objects meant to welcome and comfort, the vicarage parlor, where the housekeeper left them to await Mrs. Elton, was crowded by objects meant to impress. In their abundance, the impression they made was one of overweening pride, that most deadly sin of all.

  Mrs. Elton greeted their arrival with no small amount of surprise. Elizabeth gathered that Mrs. Knightley was not a frequent visitor.

  “Mrs. Knightley. Mrs. Darcy. I was just departing to call at Randalls.”

  “Then we shall not keep you long,” Mrs. Knightley said.

  “I want to assure Jane that I do not hold her to account for her husband’s recent comportment, howsoever it might have embarrassed me,” Mrs. Elton continued. “I understand now that Frank Churchill was feeling indisposed. Poor man! And yet he would come to my little gathering, with no concern for his own discomfort, so as not to incommode me after all the trouble I took to arrange the evening. Not that I would have minded, of course. What would have been the inconvenience to me, when one is suffering a loss such as his? A trifle. I shall insist that he and Jane think no more upon it.”

  “I rather imagine they will not,” Mrs. Knightley replied.

  “I am sure they appreciate all you have done on their behalf,” Elizabeth added. “Indeed, I wish I enjoyed such attention from our own vicar’s wife back in Derbyshire. She is a fine woman, but you, Mrs. Elton, have proven yourself so very attentive in the short time I have known you, that I confess myself envious of those who have the good fortune to live in this parish.”

  Mrs. Elton curled her lips into a self-satisfied smile and straightened her posture. “I only do my duty.”

  “But you perform it so charitably.”

  “Mr. E. said that very thing to me this morning! ‘My dear Augusta,’ he said, ‘you are charity itself.’ As the vicar’s wife, you know, I must set a proper example for those who look up to me.” At this, she tilted her chin so high that anybody who did happen to look up at the vicar’s wife would experience a view of her nostrils that was not altogether desirable. “I do not suppose, Mrs. Darcy, that you are acquainted with my brother-in-law, Mr. Suckling, of Maple Grove?”

  “I have not the pleasure.”

  “But you have been to Bath?”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “Then you understand the standards for which I strive when entertaining. Although our village is small, those of us with connexions and resources can bring touches of elegance to the neighborhood.”

  Mrs. Elton had provided the very opening Elizabeth sought. “I am sure your recent soiree was an affair no one will soon forget,” she said. “You must have spent hours simply drawing up the menu. Did your housekeeper prepare the entire dinner herself?”

  “Heavens, no. For a party that size, Wright brought in two girls to help her.”

  “Of course. Does she do that often—bring in additional help?”

  “Mr. E. and I receive so many invitations that we dine out more often than not. But when we entertain, we do so in the proper style.”

  “Well-trained servants must be difficult to find in such a small village. Were they local girls?”

  “I assume so. I am too busy to attend to those sorts of matters. Wright hired them, and she knows what she is about.”

  But did Wright know what the girls had been about on that night? If they had not themselves slipped Frank Churchill the poison, perhaps they had observed something that could lead Darcy and Mr. Knightley to the person who had.

  “Mrs. Knightley, does Hartfield ever want additional help?” Elizabeth asked. “Perhaps you might ask the housekeeper—with your approval, of course, Mrs. Elton—for these girls’ names and characters in case you ever have need.”

  The expression of Mrs. Knightley’s eyes, visible only to Elizabeth from the angles at which the three of them were seated, said that she would rather go to work as a kitchen maid herself than solicit references from Mrs. Elton or anybody in her employ. Mrs. Knightley, however, kept her features in check as she turned to Mrs. Elton. “I would welcome any such recommendations you are willing to extend.”

  The housekeeper was summoned, the names given, and Mrs. Elton’s vanity satisfied. To have been placed in the position of offering domestic guidance to Mrs. Knightley was a coup beyond any she could have anticipated at the start of the call. She radiated triumph as Mrs. Knightley conveyed her gratitude.

  “I must thank you also for the word puzzles you recently sent to me,” Mrs. Knightley added.

  Mrs. Elton carefully held her expression, but the exultant light in her eyes dimmed. “Puzzles?”

  “Yes—the charade that arrived the day we returned to Hartfield. And the enigma last night
.”

  Mrs. Elton rearranged her skirts, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from them. “I am afraid I have not the slightest idea what you refer to.”

  “Indeed?” Mrs. Knightley affected perplexity. “We had just been talking of such entertainments at Abbey Mill Farm, you recall. So when these puzzles arrived, the lines were so clever I thought they certainly must have been penned by you.”

  A fleeting look of gratification flickered across Mrs. Elton’s countenance. “I—well—perhaps I might have been inspired to exercise my intellectual resources. But—”

  They were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Elton, who seemed as surprised to discover Mrs. Knightley in his home as his wife had been. “Forgive my intrusion,” he said. “I did not realize you had visitors, Augusta.”

  “We were just come to thank Mrs. Elton for the puzzles she sent to Hartfield,” Mrs. Knightley said. “We found them most diverting, particularly the charade.”

  “But I never said I—”

  “You sent our charade to Hartfield?” Mr. Elton turned his head towards Mrs. Knightley, but his incredulous gaze remained on his wife. “It was an innocent little ditty—meaningless—composed as a private amusement.” At last, he looked at Mrs. Knightley. “I entreat you to destroy it and forget it ever found its way into your hands.”

  Though Mrs. Knightley affected indifference, Elizabeth knew she must feel vindicated. “Shall I destroy the second puzzle as well?”

  “Second puzzle?” He turned back to his wife. “You wrote another?” Though restrained, his tone held an icy edge.

  “No! Indeed, my caro sposo, I certainly did not! You know I do not profess to be a wit. I do not know what she is talking about.”

  Both Mr. Elton and Mrs. Knightley appeared in doubt as to the truth of this statement. Elizabeth, too, was inclined to skepticism. But there was in Mrs. Elton’s tone and manner a note of desperation, a need to be believed by her husband, that rang more genuine than the falsetto performance she had given to Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley earlier. In any event, it was clear that Mr. Elton, at least, had been entirely ignorant of the second puzzle until Mrs. Knightley mentioned it.

  The overstuffed parlor contracted with tension, but Mr. Elton was too conscious of himself and his audience to say more to his wife. “The other puzzle must have come from Mrs. Martin, then,” he said to Mrs. Knightley. “She is the only person besides ourselves who was there discussing charades.”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Elton exclaimed. “The enigma must have been written by Harriet. It is she, after all, who finds such diversion in these silly little word games.”

  The visit soon concluded, and yielded no more. Mrs. Knightley came away still convinced that Mrs. Elton had authored both messages. “She did not even ask what the second one said,” she offered as evidence to Elizabeth. “Who, after sending the first puzzle, would not express even the slightest curiosity about the one that followed? Someone who already knew its content.”

  Elizabeth remained less certain, though she considered Mrs. Elton a far likelier author than Harriet Martin. She was more satisfied with the results of her own enquiry, and intended to seek directly the two village girls whose names Mrs. Wright had supplied.

  The ladies walked down Vicarage Lane again, passing the same children still occupied by the same diversion. The crows, though nearly done with their feast, yet vied for the remaining morsels. Apparently, one had seized upon a particularly coveted tidbit, provoking the jealousy of its fellow diners. They cawed their outrage, flapping their wings and snapping their beaks in an attempt to steal the delicacy. The offender flew off into a nearby tree, where it continued to loudly boast its triumph—in the process, dropping its prize.

  “Apparently, this part of the village attracts all manner of braggarts,” Elizabeth said. “Though I cannot say who is more obnoxious—the Eltons, or the crows.”

  “Are they not one and the same? Mrs. Elton crows at every opportunity.”

  “You truly dislike her.”

  “I have no patience for her conceit and presumption. She believes herself superior, but in truth she is no better—in fact, altogether more vulgar—than many of those whom she purports to eclipse. She is like the bird that flew into the tree just now, so busy proclaiming her superiority that she fails to realize how ridiculous she appears when she proves herself merely one of the flock.”

  They followed the lane to Broadway. Mrs. Wright had said one of the girls lived just past the Crown, and it was to her house that they headed. However, as they passed the inn, a different girl caught Elizabeth’s attention.

  The last person in England who she expected to see casually strolling the streets of Highbury.

  Miss Jones.

  Twenty-three

  “A very pretty trick you have been playing me, upon my word!”

  —Emma Woodhouse, Emma

  Elizabeth was all astonishment.

  So was Miss Jones.

  Elizabeth recovered herself first. She took a step toward the Crown Inn, whence the girl had just emerged. The movement, however, penetrated Miss Jones’s own shock, and she instantly fled down the lane.

  “Stop, thief!”

  Elizabeth’s cry drew the attention of several passers-by, including Hiram Deal, whose cart Miss Jones was running past. He intercepted her flight and turned her around to face Elizabeth.

  “I believe the lady wishes to speak with you,” he said.

  Miss Jones cast him a scathing look. By the time she turned back to her accuser, however, she wore an entirely different expression.

  “Oh! Ma’am! I recognize you now. Mrs. Darcy, is it not? The very person I hoped to meet.”

  “Indeed?” Elizabeth was amazed by her brazenness. “Whatever for?”

  “Why, to beg your forgiveness, of course! For the incident the other evening—I cannot think upon it without regret.”

  “Nor can I.” Elizabeth cast a sidelong glance at Mrs. Knightley. “This is the young woman Mr. Darcy and I encountered on the London road.” She nodded towards Miss Jones’s foot. “Apparently, your ankle has healed.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Darcy! If you would but listen—” She wrenched against Mr. Deal’s grasp. He released her, but remained near. “I did not want to deceive you! Truly, I did not! They forced me to.”

  “Who?”

  “The gypsies!”

  This declaration raised echoes in the gathered onlookers.

  “Gypsies!”

  “The gypsies have returned?”

  “Someone send word to Mr. Knightley!”

  A sturdy young boy dashed off toward Hartfield to report the news, unaware that the magistrate had been in possession of this intelligence for days. Meanwhile, the crowd’s exclamations drew still more villagers. Among the new arrivals was Mr. Elton, who must have left the vicarage almost the moment Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley had. He strode toward them with an air of self-importance.

  Elizabeth had little desire to cause a scene. But she also would not allow Miss Jones to disappear a second time. “I saw no gypsies the other night,” she said to her. “Only you, imposing most shamefully on my husband and me.”

  Mr. Elton reached them. “What is transpiring here?”

  Though Elizabeth addressed the clergyman, she kept her gaze fixed on Miss Jones. “This woman stopped our carriage and robbed Mr. Darcy and me on the London road four nights ago.”

  “That is not true!” Miss Jones turned to Mr. Elton with wide, tearful eyes. “Indeed, sir, she misunderstands. I would never do such a thing—not willingly!”

  “I do not see how this young woman could act as you describe. Stop a carriage and overcome the driver and Mr. Darcy? That is improbable for any female, let alone one of such petite stature.”

  “She had accomplices. They stole our belongings while she diverted our attention.”

  “I did not!”

  “Perhaps you have mistaken her for someone else?” Mr. Elton suggested. “What is your name, miss?”

  “Loretta. Loretta .
. .” The woman hesitated, staring at Elizabeth. “Jones,” she said finally. “Loretta Jones.”

  “I would know ‘Miss Jones’ anywhere,” Elizabeth said. “Her voice is unmistakable.” The caterwaul yet resonated in her memory. “And she is wearing the same dress.”

  With little else over it. The girl had acquired a lightweight shawl since Elizabeth had last seen her, but it held more colors than warmth, and on this blustery November day she must be freezing. She still wore no hat; her flight had caused several locks of hair to come loose from its ribbon. Miss Jones rubbed her arms and shivered, eliciting sympathetic looks from more than one observer. A man offered her the use of his coat, which she accepted with abundant expressions of gratitude for his kindness to a “poor, lost stranger.”

  She lavished similar praise on Mr. Elton. How providential that a man of God should happen along just at her moment of need, while she was trying to explain to Mrs. Darcy the most unfortunate incidents that had led her to this state.

  “How did you come to be lost?” Mr. Elton’s manner was not that of a clergyman ministering to a member of his flock, but rather that of a man whose sense had been banished by the flutter of eyelashes. Mrs. Knightley released a sound of disgust perceptible only to Elizabeth.

  “I was kidnapped by the gypsies,” Miss Jones announced.

  Gasps and small cries rippled through the assembly. Even the women regarded Miss Jones with sympathy.

  “I was out walking one day—on my way to . . . church . . . with caps and mittens I had made to give to some poor families in our village. I try so hard to be mindful of others less fortunate than myself, you see. Well, a band of gypsies appeared from nowhere. I thought they wanted to steal the woollens, and I said welcome to them, but they seized me, too. I tried to run away but they said I must cooperate or they would go to my house and steal my sister instead—she only six years old! Of course I could not put her in such danger. So I consented, and they have been dragging me across England with them ever since.”