The Intrigue at Highbury Page 4

  But it could be done.

  The more Emma contemplated the idea, the more enamored of it she became. Within a quarter hour she thought the enterprise quite brilliant.

  She rose to depart. There was no time to waste if the new dress was to be ready in time for the ball. Even Emma was no fairy godmother.

  Before she could take her leave, however, sounds of bustle in the street below sent Miss Bates to the window.

  “Oh, it is the peddler! Mr. Deal, the one everybody has been talking of.” She turned to face the room. “Mother, the peddler is below. The peddler. PED-ler. The man of whom Mrs. Elton spoke.”

  The old woman at last seemed to understand her daughter. At least, she nodded as if she did, her knitting needles never missing a purl.

  Since Mr. Deal’s arrival in Highbury, the sight of the trader’s cart brought most other village activity to a standstill. Nellie, the scullery maid at Randalls, was hardly alone in her patent admiration of Mr. Deal. Parlor maids, chambermaids, dairymaids, still-room maids, laundry maids, nursery maids—in short, all manner of maids, along with a good many farmers’ and tradesmen’s daughters—suddenly found themselves in dire want of goods that simply could not be procured at Ford’s. Matrons regarded the handsome trader wistfully while buying one of his gypsy remedies for their husbands’ snoring or digestive ailments. Even Mr. Woodhouse, who as a rule distrusted strangers, had pronounced him “an acceptable fellow,” after he had called at Hartfield, but added that he hoped the peddler would not stay in Highbury long, and expressed apprehension as to his traveling about the country so much, particularly without a proper muffler round his neck against the wind.

  Miss Bates’s attention returned to the street. “Look at all the people stopping to talk to him. There is Miss Cole. Oh—and Miss Nash from the school. He certainly seems to attract a crowd. I wonder what he has for sale today—I cannot quite see into his cart. Mrs. Elton says he sells all manner of things.”

  “Have you not yet met him yourself?” Emma found it difficult to believe that a villager remained who had not yet encountered Mr. Deal.

  “Whenever I hear of him, he is always just gone. He has never stopped this close to our house before.”

  “Then let us go down.” Emma needed nothing for herself, but—in restrained quantities—one of the laces she had seen with Mrs. Weston would be the very thing to enhance the surprise dress she was planning.

  Miss Bates was delighted by the proposal. “Not that we are likely to buy anything from him. We have so few needs—is that not right, Mother? Our friends are so kind that we have few needs—but there is no harm in seeing what he has for sale.”

  Mrs. Bates elected to remain beside the fire with her knitting, but Patty, the Bates’s maid-of-all-work, begged leave to go down for a few minutes. Their departure was delayed while Miss Bates saw to it that her mother was comfortably settled, her spectacles adjusted, her workbag within reach, the fire screen positioned at just the proper distance.

  In the time it took the three women to reach the street, still more customers had gathered round the peddler’s cart. Mr. Deal acknowledged Emma and Miss Bates with a nod as he extolled the workmanship of a locket that Miss Cole admired. When he had done, he greeted Emma and asked after her father’s health. The enquiry would please her father very much when she told him, as no topic of conversation delighted him more than discussions of anyone’s health, particularly his own.

  Emma then introduced her companion. The peddler bowed to Miss Bates, a generous bow worthy of her former condition in life, and was all consideration. What was she in want of this morning, that he might have the privilege of supplying her?

  “I—” Self-consciousness overtook her. “I do not know.”

  It was the shortest reply Emma had ever heard Miss Bates utter.

  He smiled. “Well, then, if you will allow me, I have a shawl that came into my mind the moment I saw you.”

  His warm, genuine manner quite flustered Miss Bates, who, while yet the recipient of gracious conduct from Mr. Knightley, Mr. Woodhouse, and others secure enough in their social stations and in themselves to treat a gentlewoman with courtesy no matter her present circumstances, nevertheless had grown used to a certain amount of patronization from other individuals, particularly those whose own positions had risen as hers had sunk, and who needed to exalt themselves by reminding others of their inferior places. Mrs. Elton was one of these; her husband, though his public conduct was not as overt, in private was little better.

  Certainly, the merchants of Highbury, many of them lifelong acquaintances, remained kind to Miss Bates, though her purchases, which had never been extravagant, had dwindled steadily in the years since her father’s passing. But Mr. Deal had a way of addressing a woman, any woman—nay, any person—as if the individual to whom he spoke was the only one present. Even in a crowd, each listener felt singled out. It was this ability, even more than his pleasing countenance, that so strongly drew others to him.

  And left Miss Bates, for perhaps the first time in her life, tongue-tied.

  Mr. Deal produced the shawl and permitted Miss Bates to put it around her shoulders. It indeed flattered her. Not only did it cover the unattractive old dress she wore, but its ivory hue complemented her coloring, lending her face a softer, warmer tone than the starker white of the shawl she normally wore. And the craftsmanship was lovely: someone had spent considerable time on the knotwork of its fringe.

  “It becomes you,” Emma said.

  Miss Bates ran her fingertips over the folds of silk draped over her arm. “I do not believe I have ever worn anything so lovely.” She glanced up at Mr. Deal. “How much does it cost?”

  Mr. Deal took in her outdated dress, her worn bonnet, and named a price Emma knew to be below what the shawl could have fetched from a more affluent buyer. Yet it was still beyond Miss Bates’s means.

  It was not, however, beyond Mrs. Knightley’s. And Emma resolved that only this shawl could adequately complement the new dress she was planning.

  “Oh . . .” Miss Bates stroked the fabric a final time and removed the shawl. “Worth every penny, certainly. Such a lovely garment—every inch of it lovely—I could not possibly—a younger woman ought to have it—yes, a younger woman . . .”

  At that moment, Mrs. Elton approached. She was in conversation with a man Emma recognized as one of the local farmers, although she did not know his name. As they walked, Mrs. Elton held one side of her skirt, the side nearest him, close to herself, as if, though he was not dirty, she feared contamination by the proximity.

  Emma was determined to intercept the vicar’s vain wife before she caught a glimpse of the shawl and decided that she was the younger woman who ought to possess it. Emma took the shawl and handed it to Mr. Deal. “I am afraid I cannot tarry, but if you call at Donwell Abbey tomorrow, I shall be there overseeing arrangements for a large party Thursday week, and there are a few items”—she looked pointedly at the shawl—“that I am in want of.”

  His expression assured her that he had caught her meaning.

  After taking a hasty leave of Miss Bates, Emma walked down the street toward Mrs. Elton and her companion. He was a man of perhaps fifty, and moved slowly for one of his apparent age and state of health. Emma recalled that on other occasions when she had seen him, he exhibited an air of vagueness similar to that of old Mrs. Bates when her deafness prevented her from following a conversation.

  “. . . must be terribly lonely on that farm all by yourself since your brother died,” Mrs. Elton was saying.

  “Abe, he took—he took—he took good care a’ me.”

  “I am quite sure he did. And the farm is all yours now?”

  “It—it is, ma’am. All mine.”

  He spoke as slowly as he walked, as if he had to stop and remember how to form each word before he could articulate it. Emma realized with a start who he was.

  The half-wit to whom Mrs. Elton thought to marry off Miss Bates.

  Emma smiled in secret s
atisfaction. She was well on her way to thwarting Mrs. Elton’s plan. Any of the guests at the Donwell party would make a better husband than the village idiot. And armed with Emma’s dress and the peddler’s shawl, Miss Bates would surely impress one of them. Of this, Emma was certain.

  She glanced back at Miss Bates before crossing to waylay Mrs. Elton. A section of the spinster’s upswept hair had become loose, allowing grey tendrils to hang down lopsidedly. Emma sighed.

  Almost certain.

  Four

  “Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. . . .

  His aunt is in the way.—His aunt dies.”

  —Mr. Knightley, Emma

  The London wedding of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax was a quiet, intimate affair limited to immediate family. Such would have been the bride’s preference in any case; Miss Fairfax was a lady of reserved nature, who eschewed loud crushes and ostentation. As the groom’s aunt had died unexpectedly only a few months before, Frank was equally in favor of demonstrating restraint on their nuptial day. All knew that the proud, temperamental woman who had raised him would have opposed the match between the Churchill heir presumptive and an accomplished but genteelly impoverished orphan; only old Mrs. Churchill’s death had enabled their clandestine engagement to be revealed and the marriage to take place. To conduct the event with excessive gaiety, particularly whilst his uncle yet mourned, would have appeared disrespectful and held an air of celebrating Agnes Churchill’s untimely demise as in fact fortuitous. So a small company partook of the wedding breakfast following the ceremony, deferring more expansive and convivial recognition of the union until the party at Donwell Abbey.

  After a few additional days in London, the bridal party traveled to Highbury. The newlyweds and Frank’s uncle, Mr. Edgar Churchill, would stay at Randalls during the Donwell festivities, then journey north to Yorkshire so that Jane could settle at Enscombe. Though the Churchill estate would not belong to Frank until after his uncle passed away, Jane would serve as mistress of the house and continue in that capacity until it was hers by right, unless Edgar Churchill should remarry in the interim. It was a role all expected she would perform with more graciousness and generosity than had her predecessor—all, that is, except Mr. Edgar Churchill, who, while not insensible of his late wife’s faults, had through inaction condoned them during her life, and through the softening effects of memory diminished them since her death.

  Edgar Churchill himself seemed amiable enough. All Highbury had eagerly anticipated his coming, for though well known to its residents for five-and-twenty years as Mr. Weston’s wealthy brother-in-law and Frank’s benefactor, he had not once set foot in the village before now. He was a hale individual, his stout figure a striking contrast to the image everybody had formed of him: a slight man whose constitution approximated that of his indisposed wife, only with a weaker spine. His short stature suggested that Frank must have inherited his more generous height from Mr. Weston rather than his Churchill forebears, but a likeness in facial features and mien marked uncle and nephew as Churchills. While Edgar did exhibit the infamous Churchill pride, he also demonstrated an admirable degree of condescension, and conversed more easily with his inferiors than did many gentlemen of his class.

  Emma met Edgar Churchill during a visit to Randalls on the day of his arrival from London. It was a brief, formal call, just long enough to be properly introduced and express pleasure in the acquaintance. She was happy, therefore, to encounter him by chance the following afternoon in a more relaxed context. He and Frank, being on their way to visit the Bates ladies, happened upon Hiram Deal in Broadway Lane. Frank was as delighted by the peddler as was everybody else in Highbury, particularly when he learned that Mr. Deal had among his wares not one, but two tortoiseshell snuff boxes.

  Edgar Churchill stood to one side, observing their exchange but not himself engaging in any business with the peddler. As Frank examined the snuff boxes and quizzed Mr. Deal as to their relative merits, Emma approached the elder Mr. Churchill.

  “We are glad you came to Highbury,” Emma said by way of opening. “Mr. Frank Churchill speaks so well of you whenever he visits that we have all been eager to make your acquaintance. I believe it means a great deal to him to be at once with both his father and the uncle who has been as a father to him these many years.”

  Edgar Churchill looked not at her, but toward Frank, who was engrossed in conversation with Mr. Deal. “I thought I would never be a father,” he said.

  His voice held wistfulness. Frank’s marriage had no doubt brought on memories of Edgar’s own, along with fresh grief for the late wife nobody missed but him. Emma wondered whether the senior Churchills’ childless state had been a source of pain to them over the years. She had always thought of them, particularly the haughty and selfish Agnes Churchill, as regretting the lack of a legal heir more than the lack of a child in all of its immature, demanding physicality. Of the many impressions Emma had formed of the Churchills, that of nurturing parents had not been among them. But now, as Edgar gazed at Frank and the peddler, she saw that at least one of the Churchills knew what it meant to experience regret.

  “You have a fine son, regardless of how he came to you.”

  Her remark had been intended to soothe, but instead he turned to her with a startled look. “What prompts you to say such a thing?”

  Emma rued her loose tongue. She had insulted him, spoken too freely, too familiarly, about a delicate matter. “I beg your pardon. I meant only that Frank—”

  “Frank is not my son; he is Mr. Weston’s son.” He looked past her shoulder. “Though he is my heir, I have never forgotten that.”

  Emma turned around. Mr. Weston had approached unheard, and looked as if he wished the conversation between her and Mr. Churchill had also gone unheard, to his ears. Mr. Weston was a man of such buoyant temperament that he deplored awkwardness and conflict, and was happiest when all around him were existing in perfect harmony.

  Glancing from Emma to Mr. Churchill, he cleared his throat. “You have been most generous toward Frank, both you and Mrs. Churchill, and for your attentions to him all these years I am more thankful than I can ever express.”

  At the mention of his late wife, Edgar Churchill stiffened. Clearly, the gentleman still mourned deeply, in more than merely his attire. “Deprived of the opportunity to raise my own son, it was a privilege to raise yours.”

  His statement was oddly delivered, and made still more so by his bow and abrupt departure. He quit not only their conversation, but also the street itself, disengaging Frank from Mr. Deal to hasten him along to the Bates house. Frank handed payment to Mr. Deal and hurried off with his uncle.

  “I am afraid that I offended Mr. Churchill,” she said to Mr. Weston. “Though I am not quite certain how. I referred to Frank as his adopted son, but if anyone were to feel that appellation too keenly, I should think it would have been you.”

  “I doubt his displeasure arises from any words you uttered. He has not been quite himself since his arrival here. I believe Frank’s marriage has put him in mind of his own son.”

  Emma’s mind raced to comprehend him. “You cannot mean that Edgar Churchill has a natural child?”

  “No, no—nothing like that. Mrs. Churchill ruled him so completely that he would not have dared take a mistress.”

  “Then whatever do you mean?”

  Mr. Weston glanced around. Having assured himself that they would not be overheard, he nevertheless lowered his voice. “They had a child, a boy, early in their marriage, years before I met Frank’s mother. She—Cecilia, my late wife—was a very young girl at the time, and was not fully aware of all that occurred. But while she was carrying Frank, she told me that her brother’s wife had delivered a stillborn son. From the low talk of servants who assumed a child would neither attend nor comprehend their gossip, she formed the impression that it had been a difficult birth. Whatever occurred, Mrs. Churchill never carried another child. Cecilia knew no other details, as the episode w
as never spoken of at Enscombe, but her dim memory of it caused her anxiety until our Frank was safely delivered.”

  “Do you suppose that is why they offered to raise Frank after your wife died? To replace their lost son?”

  Mr. Weston, ever good-humored, chuckled. “No. They simply did not think me capable of properly raising a Churchill. And in that respect they were correct, for I would have raised a Weston.” His expression grew more sober. “Too, by then they had aged to the point of relinquishing hope of ever having a child of their own. With no closer relation than Frank to whom to leave their estate, they wanted to control the upbringing of their heir. As Frank was growing up, I sometimes wondered whether I had made the proper choice in allowing them to do so, but I think he turned out a fine young man, whether despite or because of their influence.”

  Five

  Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into anything by his nephew.

  —Emma

  The evening of the Donwell dinner party began promisingly enough. The Westons, Churchills, and Bateses all arrived on schedule to join the Knightleys in receiving their many guests, and Miss Bates looked as handsome as Emma had ever seen her. The seamstress and her assistants had produced just the dress Emma had envisioned, and it became Miss Bates like nothing else she had ever owned. She had, in fact, been so moved by the gift when Emma presented it for a final fitting that she was silent for a full minute as she blinked back tears, before erupting in thankfulness. The shawl complemented the dress perfectly, just as Emma had known it would.