The Intrigue at Highbury

One

Emma Woodhouse Knightley, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition — a happiness recently compounded by her marriage to a gentleman of noble character and steadfast heart — seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-two years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

With two notable exceptions: the Reverend and Mrs. Philip Elton.

“I am still appalled by their conversation,” Emma said to her husband as they sat in Hartfield’s drawing room after dinner. Her father had just retired for the night, leaving the newlyweds to enjoy an hour of peace before retiring themselves. Emma’s mind, however, was anything but quiet as she dwelled upon the discussion she had overheard that morning, and neither the familiar comforts of the room — the Chippendale sofa and side chairs, the portrait of her late mother above the great hearth — nor the novelty of her bridegroom’s now-permanent presence there, could quell her agitation.

“That is what comes of eavesdropping,” Mr. Knightley said.

“I was not eavesdropping,” Emma insisted. “I was tying my bootlace.”

The lace had come undone as she left the home of Miss Bates, a middle-aged spinster who lived with her elderly mother in reduced circumstances on the upper floor of a modest house. Emma had visited their rooms many times (though perhaps not so often as she ought), but never before had the humble apartment felt so small. The Eltons had called so shortly after Emma’s own arrival that it was some time before she could with propriety effect an escape. “I paused at the base of the stairs to fix the lace. Could I help it that the Eltons emerged from the apartment and began their discussion on the landing before I had done?”

Mr. Knightley’s expression suggested that she might have secured the half-boot more rapidly had she wanted to. Sixteen years her senior, he had known Emma her whole life, and was as well acquainted with her foibles as he was with her charms. His dark eyes narrowed in doubt, and for a moment she dreaded an admonition delivered in his usual forthright manner. Instead, he rose and stirred the fire. The flickering light shadowed his countenance and silhouetted his tall frame. Though he possessed the maturity and bearing of a man eight-and-thirty, he had maintained the firm figure of younger days, and Emma congratulated herself on having found such a fine-looking husband once she had finally opened her eyes to the gentleman next door.

He returned the poker to its stand and adjusted the screen to shield them from the heat. “It is fortunate that you managed to exit without the Eltons’ seeing you in the stairwell.” He sat down beside her on the sofa. “To have been caught listening to their conversation, however involuntarily, would not have reflected well on you.”

The last position in which Emma would want to find herself was that of giving Augusta Elton any room to expand her already inflated sense of superiority. Mrs. Elton’s greatest claim to society was a brother-in-law who owned a barouche-landau and an estate near Bristol. Though the house was named Maple Grove, Mrs. Elton seemed to think it was St. James’s Palace. She also took extraordinary pride in her status as the vicar’s wife, performing her role with pretensions of elegance and a pronounced air of noblesse oblige. Sadly, Mr. Elton, though a clergyman, was nearly as vain and insufferable as she.

“It is still more fortunate that I did overhear them, for now I can rescue poor Miss Bates from their plotting.”

“Emma—”

“Honestly, you should have heard them! Talking about how Miss Bates will surely become dependent upon parish charity after her mother dies.”

“I doubt that will happen, with her niece marrying Frank Churchill next week. A gentleman who stands to inherit an estate the size of Enscombe will not forsake his wife’s aunt.”

Emma knew that Mr. Knightley spoke not from conviction of Frank Churchill’s reliability, but from his own principles. Because Mr. Knightley would never neglect a needy relation, he expected all gentlemen to demonstrate the same sense of duty. In fact, he had forfeited his own independence to act rightly by Emma’s father. Upon their marriage, Mr. Knightley had graciously moved into the house of Emma’s birth so that she need not abandon the invalid Mr. Woodhouse or subject the old man to the trauma of leaving his lifelong home to live with them at Mr. Knightley’s more sizable estate, Donwell Abbey. Though the distance was slight — Hartfield bordered Mr. Knightley’s grounds — Mr. Woodhouse suffered from a nervous disposition and did not bear well change of any sort. The living arrangement left Donwell Abbey without its master in residence, and Emma appreciated the sacrifice her husband had made on behalf of herself and her father.

The vicar and his wife, however, were entirely capable of more selfish conduct, and therefore anticipated it in others. “The Eltons are convinced that once Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax wed and move so far away as Yorkshire, the Bates ladies will be forgotten,” Emma said. “Mrs. Elton is determined to make certain that Miss Bates becomes someone else’s responsibility and not the parish’s.”

To be specific, Mrs. Elton had proposed marrying off Miss Bates to any man — gentleman or not — who would have her. Granted, finding a husband for a woman of forty-odd years would prove a daunting enterprise, and Miss Bates’s situation was further challenged by the spinster’s propensity for endless chatter. Emma herself found Miss Bates’s trivial tidings and cheerful effusions tedious; she could scarcely imagine a husband willing to endure them day and night.

Mrs. Elton, however, had gone so far as to suggest an addlepated local farmer as the ideal candidate, and declared to Mr. Elton her intention of arranging the match. In that, the vicar’s wife had gone too far.

“She cannot be permitted to proceed,” Emma continued. “Not when I have the ability to arrange a superior establishment for Miss Bates.”

“You told me, Emma, after Harriet Smith married Robert Martin despite your interference, that you had given up matchmaking.”

“This is not matchmaking. It is—” She considered her words carefully, for there was no bluffing her husband. Mr. Knightley knew her better than did any other soul on earth. “It is merely taking advantage of an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to meddle.”

Now Emma found herself vexed not only at the Eltons, but at her “dear Mr. Knightley.” This latest was a slight vexation — a trifle, really. Well, perhaps more than a trifle. But it was her husband’s fault for willfully misinterpreting her motives for the scheme she had spent all afternoon contemplating.

“An opportunity to show kindness towards someone to whom you yourself have said I ought to demonstrate greater generosity. You should be pleased that I have taken to heart your reproofs regarding my lack of consideration for Miss Bates, and that I wish to make amends for my previous neglect. Her situation is indeed pitiable. She has sacrificed half her life to the care of her near-deaf mother. Is she to spend her old age either alone in poverty, or with some half-wit imposed upon her by Mrs. Elton?”

“We can guard Miss Bates from any maneuverings Mrs. Elton might undertake without your trying to orchestrate a match of your own.”

“Can we? Miss Bates is so appreciative of any attention or kindness shown her that even if she had reservations about the groom, she would wed him simply out of gratitude, or in deference to Mrs. Elton for arranging the marriage. If Miss Bates ever possessed enough quickness of mind to recognize an unfavorable situation when presented with one, years of deprivation have surely worn down her ability to resist it.”

Mr. Knightley could remember Miss Bates at a more carefree period of her life — before her father, a former vicar of Highbury, had died. As a clergyman’s benefice made no provisions for surviving dependents, Mr. Bates’s widow and daughter had been left to shift as best they could on an income insufficient to support even one of them, let alone two, in moderate comfort. The pair, however, being of naturally content temperaments and possessing enough sense to live within their means, accepted their situation with grace, and made the best of it.

“Miss Bates never exhibited your cleverness, Emma, nor even an intellect as strong as her younger sister’s. Yet you will not meet a kinder-hearted soul in all Surrey. Leave her in peace.”

“Her good heart is precisely why I wish to perform a kindness for her in turn. You would merely save her from the evils of Mrs. Elton, whereas I hope to secure her a future happier than her present. Somewhere in England there must be a gentleman — a good, decent gentleman, not merely the first unmarried farmer Mrs. Elton can manipulate — who can appreciate Miss Bates.”

“It would not be a kindness to introduce hopes that Miss Bates must have set aside long ago, only to have them once more disappointed.”

“Why do you assume they will be disappointed? She need not captivate the entire Polite World, merely a single man.” Ideally, one in possession of a good fortune. “And the celebration of her niece’s marriage to Frank Churchill will bring more new gentlemen to Highbury than I daresay this village has ever seen at once.”

Though the wedding would take place in London, where the bride had been raised, Frank and Jane would visit the village before removing to the Churchill estate in Yorkshire. What had initially been conceived as a small dinner party to receive the postnuptial well-wishes of their Highbury friends had burgeoned into an elaborate affair once Mr. Weston, Frank’s father, began issuing invitations. Not only was every respectable family in the neighborhood to attend, but auld acquaintance must not be forgot. Because Randalls, the Westons’ home, had but two spare bedrooms and the Crown Inn could not accommodate everybody, Donwell Abbey would host the affair and lodge many of the out-of-town guests.

The venue had been Emma’s idea, motivated by her friendship with Mrs. Weston, Frank’s stepmother. Though Mr. Knightley acquiesced, he was not without uneasiness over the thought of visitors — many of them strangers — occupying his house in his absence. He and Emma, therefore, would stay at Donwell while Emma’s visiting sister and her family stayed with Mr. Woodhouse. Emma credited their newlywed status for her successful application on this point, for under few other circumstances could she imagine Mr. Knightley’s being persuaded to go so out of his way regarding an event that honored Frank Churchill. Mr. Knightley thought the young man self-centered and more fortunate in his relationships — especially his betrothal to Jane Fairfax — than he deserved.

His unexpected role as a host did, however, enable Mr. Knightley to perform a service for the Bates ladies. He proposed that Mrs. and Miss Bates also consider themselves sponsors of the gathering. Through his means, they would be able to give Jane a proper send-off.

“This affair has already grown to answer more purposes than anyone originally intended,” Mr. Knightley said. “Now it is to serve as a promenade of suitors for your appraisal?”

“Is that not a tacit component of most social events? The difference is that this time, no one — including the lady herself — will know that this gathering is, of sorts, a coming-out ball. I shall be entirely discreet in my evaluations.”

“I do not think this wise. Even did I not harbor reservations about the presumption of attempting to find a husband for Miss Bates, one cannot learn much of use about a gentleman at a dinner party.”

“I disagree.”

“And should a man whom you judge suitable present himself, what course of action do you intend to pursue in consequence?”

Emma had not yet settled her mind as to that part of her plan. For the present, merely finding a worthy object was challenge enough.

Two

Hoping for a more sympathetic audience — perhaps even a conspirator — in her plan for Miss Bates, Emma visited Randalls the following day. Just over a year ago, Emma’s dearest friend had married Mr. Weston, and Emma fancied that she herself had brought about the match between her former governess and the longtime widower. Where Mr. Knightley had responded to Emma’s plan with skepticism, surely Mrs. Weston would recognize the merit, the necessity, of the idea, and approve it. Mrs. Weston possessed good principles and sound judgment; if Emma’s intentions towards Miss Bates were indeed misguided, Mrs. Weston would advise her — though with a heart prejudiced by a near-mother’s affection for the girl, now woman, she had helped raise from age five.

Emma would listen to Mrs. Weston’s counsel, then act as she generally did: precisely as Emma wished.

She found Mrs. Weston walking out-of-doors along a path that circled the house. The day was overcast, and a brisk autumn breeze endeavored to dislodge colored leaves from Randalls’s trees. It did manage to catch the brim of Mrs. Weston’s bonnet, freeing tendrils of dark hair as she spied Emma and came to greet her. Rosy cheeks revealed that she had been walking for some time.

“You are taking your walk early today,” Emma said.

“I thought I should do so before the day’s tasks overtook me.” The breeze swelled, prompting Mrs. Weston to shiver and cross her arms over the front of her spencer. “We go to London soon for Frank and Jane’s wedding, and there are still countless details to oversee for the dinner party.”

“Donwell Abbey could not be blessed with a more capable housekeeper. Depend upon it, Mrs. Hodges has everything in order.”

“I am entirely confident that she does. It is only that…”

Such was the accord between them that Emma’s friend did not need to complete the sentence for Emma to know her apprehension. Though still rather new to her role as stepmother, Mrs. Weston’s affection for Frank equaled his father’s. As a young militia officer with no fortune of his own, the newly widowed Mr. Weston had, of necessity, commended his three-year-old son to his late wife’s wealthy brother and sister-in-law, Edgar and Agnes Churchill, who had raised him as their own while Mr. Weston earned his place in the world. Now that Frank was grown and heir to the Churchill fortune — he had even taken the name “Churchill” upon reaching his majority — there was nothing of a material nature that he needed from Mr. Weston. Frank’s legacy from his father and new mother, therefore, comprised unconditional love: the one asset he had found wanting on the grand estate of Enscombe. Fondness and regard had been shown, but never — particularly on his late aunt’s part — unconditionally.

“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

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 brought 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.

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 satisfaction. 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

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 was 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

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.

Miss Bates’s hair, arranged by Emma’s own lady’s maid in a simple yet elegant style beneath a bandeau, framed her face becomingly. To Emma’s surprise, she wore the very combs Emma had admired among Mr. Deal’s wares. She wondered, however, that Miss Bates had indulged in purchasing them at the sacrifice of more pressing wants.

She told Miss Bates that she looked lovely, and meant it. “I was tempted by those combs myself when I saw them among the peddler’s goods, but I am glad you bought them, for they look so nice in your hair.”

“Oh, I did not buy them! I had been telling Mr. Deal all about Jane’s good fortune in marrying Frank, and how Frank had lately had some of his late aunt’s jewels reset in a pair of hair ornaments for Jane, when he produced these combs. They were so pretty, and such a story Mr. Deal told! — but he would not name a price. He insisted on giving them to me — positively insisted — said he hoped they would bring me good fortune. But I am already so blessed — we have such good friends — kind, dear friends, such as yourself — not to mention a new nephew who will now ensure Jane’s happiness — How could I possibly be in want of more good fortune?”

Emma smiled. If only Miss Bates knew what fortune this night might bring.

Emma had identified three gentlemen on tonight’s guest list as particularly promising candidates for Miss Bates’s hand: the Reverend Mr. Wynnken, Mr. Timothy Nodd, and Major Oliver Barnes-Lincoln. All were unmarried gentlemen between the ages of two score and three. Each had a respectable profession — the church, the law, the army — that would enable him to provide Miss Bates a comfortable establishment suitable for a gentlewoman. These were also professions that would enable the groom to spend time out of the house — away from Miss Bates’s chatter — as needed.

The guests began to arrive. Miss Bates greeted local families with the ease of familiarity, and persons less well known to her with delight.

“Mr. and Mrs. Perry! How good of you to come. Jane looks radiant, does she not? It must please you, Mr. Perry, to see Jane in such a fine state of health after your kind ministrations to her earlier this year. Yes, love does work wonders — Mrs. Goddard! Indeed, it is a new gown… why, thank you, I am most obliged for the compliment; I do not think I have ever owned anything like it. — Oh, you are Major Barnes-Lincoln! Colonel Campbell speaks so highly of you, Major. You are most welcome in Highbury. How do you find it?”

Major Barnes-Lincoln replied that he liked it quite well, and lingered a few moments longer than necessary — at least, in Emma’s hopeful perception — before seeking the company of Colonel Campbell.

Mrs. Elton, upon entering with her husband, was astonished to find Miss Bates in a new dress, and her approval of it was all hyperbole and insincerity. She took as a personal slight the notion that Miss Bates should have acquired the garment without her involvement. “My dear Miss Bates, you are such a sly creature! I never guessed you were planning a second gown all the while I toiled to make the first just so. Had I known, I could have advised you on this one as well. I see you chose a plain skirt — I would have suggested beadwork, or perhaps more ribbon.”

“It was a surprise from Miss — Mrs. Knightley. Miss Woodhouse, I almost said. Forgive me, Mrs. Knightley, you are so recently married that I nearly forgot myself. But yes, the gown was a surprise — a most delightful surprise.”

At this intelligence, Mrs. Elton’s countenance hardened. “A surprise from Mrs. Knightley?” She turned to Emma with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “You must be very confident in your judgment, to risk imposing your own preferences on someone else.”

Emma was happily spared the necessity of replying by the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Dixon. When the butler announced the couple, Mrs. Elton immediately turned around to assess Jane’s dearest friend — the former Miss Campbell — and her husband.

Emma averted her gaze, ashamed to recall the unkind speculation in which she had engaged last spring, that Jane Fairfax had developed an improper attachment to Mr. Dixon before his marriage to her friend. Had Emma kept the supposition to herself, she might now meet him without a blush, but she had carelessly shared her suspicions with Frank Churchill, who had encouraged her error so as to divert her notice from his own feelings for Jane. Though she had forgiven Frank his duplicity, she could not yet hear the name “Dixon” without mortification. Fortunately, Mr. Dixon himself remained unaware that he had ever been the object of calumnious conjecture.

A Mr. Thomas Dixon accompanied the Patrick Dixons. Thomas, Emma had been given to understand, was some sort of cousin, one of those adjunct relations that every family has and nobody else is quite sure as to which particular limb of the family tree they occupy. All she knew was that he was a younger son of some forgotten Irish landowner, and was dependent upon Patrick Dixon for his maintenance. Emma was surprised to learn that he had been among the party at Weymouth that had given rise to her suspicions regarding Jane Fairfax and Mr. Patrick Dixon, for neither Frank Churchill nor Jane — nor Miss Bates, who could be counted upon to blurt out every known particular about her niece at some point — had ever alluded to his presence at the spa town during the period of Frank and Jane’s meeting and clandestine courtship.

Having heard that Thomas was a younger son, Emma had formed a picture in her mind of a young man. Upon meeting him in person, however, she was surprised to discover that he was in fact considerably older than Mr. Patrick Dixon. From the grey at his temples and the laughter-lines about his animated blue eyes, she would guess him to be in his middle forties. She also had not been expecting a gentleman of such flamboyant appearance. He was dressed to the nines in a formfitting bright blue double-breasted dress coat and a shirt so ruffled that it erupted from his waistcoat in an avalanche of lace. Snug yellow pantaloons and silk stockings accentuated his trim figure and led the eye to low-heeled patent leather pumps with jeweled buckles. His cravat was so intricately tied that Beau Brummell himself would approve; white gloves and a tall-crowned silk top hat completed the ensemble.

“Mrs. Knightley — it is already a delightful party, and it has barely begun!” Thomas Dixon clasped her hand and raised it to his lips. “May I say, you are wearing the most exquisite gown. And your slippers — they must have come from Willis in London.”

When Emma confessed that they had not, Thomas Dixon nevertheless complimented her taste. “It is far superior to that lady’s,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Her shoes are simply all wrong.” Emma followed his gaze; he was looking at Mrs. Elton.

She liked him already.

At last, Emma had received all her guests and was free to mingle among them whilst awaiting the call to dinner. Major Barnes-Lincoln remained in conversation with Colonel Campbell, and had been joined by one of Mr. Weston’s old militia acquaintances. Mr. Nodd and Mr. Wynnken were engaged in separate conversations of their own; Emma would steer Miss Bates toward one of them as soon as the spinster had done arranging her mother near the fire. Mr. Woodhouse was already seated nearby with Emma’s sister, Mrs. Weston, and Mr. Perry, all of whom were assuring him that the soup would not be over-rich, nor the pork over-salted, and that no harm would come of the diners’ indulging in syllabub if the portions were kept quite small.

All was proceeding smoothly.

Nearly all, that is. Mr. Edgar Churchill seemed rather out of sorts as he stood off to one side of the crowded drawing room with Frank and Jane. Edgar held in his hand a glass of wine — his third — despite the fact that no one else drank. He had complained of thirst almost immediately upon his arrival, had of course been accommodated, and quickly swallowed two glasses. He now appeared much redder in the face than when Emma had received him. Frank’s palm rested on the decanter, though Emma could not tell whether he stood ready to refill Edgar’s glass yet again, or to prevent his uncle from doing so himself. She hoped it was the latter. Edgar needed no more wine at present. The hand supporting his wineglass trembled, threatening to spill its contents on the Persian rug; the other fluttered nervously at his side, fingers thrumming against his leg.

The sooner dinner began and Edgar Churchill consumed food to offset the wine, the better.

Emma went to tell them that the formal procession to the dining room would commence presently. As the newest bride and guest of honor, Jane Churchill would enjoy the privilege of leading the way. When Mrs. Knightley reached the trio, however, she found their thoughts far from the imminent meal. Edgar was bitterly vocalizing his discomfort.

“Too hot — intolerably hot…” He tugged at his cravat as if it choked him. “Ridiculous to have a fire in a room with so many people. Idiotic notion — What, we are all invited to dinner only to be cooked ourselves?”

“The room is close, sir,” said Frank, “but hardly intolerable.”

“Do not presume to tell me what is intolerable.”

“I am sure we will go in to dinner momentarily,” said Jane. “Look, here is Mrs. Knightley now, probably come to inform us so.”

“Indeed, yes,” Emma said. “I anticipate the butler’s cue at any—”

“Why can we not go in now? For what are we kept waiting in this inferno?” He downed another half glass. “Nobody tells me anything! A gentleman has a right to know certain matters.”

Frank put his hand on Edgar’s arm in an attempt to placate him. “Sir, a little patience—”

“Patience? I am out of patience! I spent it all; I have no more. And what did it buy?” He stared at Frank’s hand on his arm, then raised his gaze to his face. “Deceit — that is what it bought me. A gentleman ought not be surprised by news of his son.”

“I am deeply sorry, sir. I should have told you of my engagement. It was wrong of me to conceal it. Were it not for trepidation over how Jane would be received by my aunt—”

“She was so proud, too proud!” His rant was starting to draw the notice of others.

Emma’s perfect evening was rapidly coming undone. Surely Edgar Churchill was not intoxicated before dinner even began? At least, she comforted herself, her scheme for Miss Bates was unaffected by Mr. Churchill’s behavior. The spinster was even now smiling broadly as she conversed with Mr. Nodd. From this range, Emma could not hear the subject of their discourse — a good sign, she decided, for it suggested that Miss Bates’s chatter was restrained at present, if only in volume.

The butler’s welcome news that dinner was at last ready to be served brought Emma immense relief. She paired her guests in order of precedence, attributing to hunger the less than blissful expression that momentarily flashed across Mr. Nodd’s countenance as Miss Bates took his arm. Edgar, however, caused her greater distress: he refused to take his place in the promenade. He provided no reason, merely obstinance, despite Frank and Jane’s repeated efforts to mollify him.

Emma and Mr. Knightley sent the other guests ahead, hoping that once the drawing room emptied, Mr. Churchill would become more complacent. But his agitation only increased.

“Gone! Shut me out! Shut me out, they did! Who decided? Who decided he should go?” He fairly impaled Emma with an angry glare. “You!”

Emma had witnessed the effects of too much wine before, but never to such a degree. She was too stunned to respond, and was grateful that her husband had also stayed behind to help manage Mr. Churchill.

Mr. Knightley interposed himself between Emma and their agitated guest. “Mr. Churchill, perhaps you had better—”

Mr. Churchill ignored Mr. Knightley altogether, seeming to look right through him as he continued to address Emma. “Always directing everybody around you. Manipulating us all. How could you live with yourself?” He laughed hysterically. “Apparently, you could not.”

“Mr. Churchill!” Guest or no, Mr. Knightley had done with politeness. “If you cannot act with civility, I shall be forced to have a servant conduct you back to Randalls. Perhaps a proper night’s rest will enable you to regain command of yourself.”

Edgar Churchill at last raised his gaze to Mr. Knightley’s stern countenance. “You do not know what it is to mourn.” He looked then at Emma. “And neither do you, Agnes.”

Oh, dear. Edgar Churchill was farther gone than she had realized. His pupils were wide, his face all confusion.

“I am not Mrs. Churchill,” Emma said gently.

“Are you not?” He looked about the room. “Where is she? Where did she go?” His voice cracked. “She was just here…”

He was still discomposed, but no longer belligerent. Emma pitied him. Mr. Knightley’s glower softened.

“Mr. Churchill, if you are feeling indisposed, allow me to call for your carriage.”

His unfocused gaze continued to sweep the room. “Where is Frank? Where is my son? I want my son.”

Emma and Mr. Knightley exchanged glances. “It would be cruel to send him back to an unfamiliar house alone,” she said. “And even if we did, I think he needs to eat something before he leaves.”

“Do you believe him collected enough to join the other guests?”

“He is placed near Frank Churchill at the dining table. That should comfort him.”

It was settled. Mr. Knightley took Mr. Churchill’s wineglass from him and set it on a nearby table, then he and Emma escorted Frank’s uncle to the dining room. He moved slowly, his fit of temper apparently having depleted his energy. The continual thrumming of his left hand, however, bespoke a spirit not yet at ease.

When they entered the dining room, the rest of the party was — mercifully — so immersed in conversation that their entrance was scarcely noticed. Frank, however, had been watching the door. He observed his uncle’s demeanor and immediately came to them. “Are you well, sir?”

Mr. Churchill attempted to speak, but his voice broke. He tried to force out words but hoarseness had overtaken him. Perhaps it was just as well — he could not cause a further scene.

“Come.” Frank led him to his chair. “We have been missing you.”

Emma was glad that Mr. Perry happened to be placed across the table from Edgar Churchill. The apothecary was used to dealing with people in all manner of conditions and temperaments, and himself possessed a soothing demeanor. His conversation would help further steady the senior Mr. Churchill.

When all were seated, Emma’s gaze took in the whole assembly. The guests of honor, Frank and Jane Churchill, exhibited the proper degree of newlywed felicity. Their friends shared their joy; their families — particularly Miss Bates — fairly radiated it. Miss Bates, in fact, seated (by no accident) between Mr. Nodd and Mr. Wynnken, and across from Major Barnes-Lincoln, wore a look of such happiness that in the candlelight she looked almost pretty, and Emma harbored hopes that the demands of chewing and swallowing would by necessity check the flow of her conversation enough to allow the gentlemen around her to participate in it.

Mrs. Knightley met her husband’s gaze and smiled. Their first dinner party, in both its official and tacit objectives, looked to be a success after all.

That was the last peaceful moment of the night.

Though Edgar Churchill had the courtesy to tolerate the soup course, somewhere between the fish and the pheasant the company nearly bore witness to a return of his bisque.

The heaving gentleman was hastily removed from the dining room to an empty bedchamber, where Mr. Perry attended him. Frank rose to accompany them, but upon being assured of Mr. Perry’s having the situation well in hand, was persuaded to remain in the dining room with all of the people assembled there for his benefit. Emma and Mr. Knightley, their sense of obligation equally divided between their duty to one ill guest and responsibility to dozens of others, settled it between them that Mr. Knightley, more familiar with the Donwell household, would accompany the apothecary and his patient to oversee any provisions required to make Mr. Churchill more comfortable.

To Emma, meanwhile, fell the unenviable task of presiding over a dining table whose atmosphere had altered considerably. The unseemly intoxication of the groom’s uncle, a gentleman of Edgar Churchill’s stature, was a subject on everyone’s minds but no one’s tongues as they awkwardly tried to converse about any other subject in the world. Miss Bates had no trouble filling the uncomfortable silence, and Emma for once was grateful for her steady, cheerful chatter. The more she spoke, however, the more pained Mr. Wynnken appeared, and the major looked as if he very much wished that she, too, would retire from the room pleading indisposition. Mr. Nodd seemed in danger of nodding off altogether. Emma’s matchmaking plans were unraveling before her eyes.

Mr. Woodhouse blamed the bisque. Rich food, he had long maintained, was never good for anybody’s digestion, but especially for an elderly gentleman such as Edgar Churchill. (At nine-and-fifty, Mr. Woodhouse was yet on the light side of sixty, the year which, in his mind, marked the threshold of old age. In temperament and habits, however, Mr. Woodhouse had been old at thirty.) He passionately attempted to dissuade everyone near him from so much as tasting the syllabub. Only Mrs. Elton complied — not out of doubts regarding the dessert’s richness, but out of conviction of its inferiority to the syllabub served at Maple Grove.

When Mr. Knightley returned and reported that Mr. Churchill had fallen into slumber, a sense of ease rippled through the assembly. Edgar Churchill would sleep off his overindulgence. For the present, both he and his embarrassing behavior could be quite guiltlessly forgotten.

Six

It was most inconsiderate of Edgar Churchill to die during his nephew’s marriage celebration.

The women had returned to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port and tobacco, when a footman entered and discreetly informed Emma that she was wanted posthaste by Mr. Perry. She reached Edgar’s chamber to discover her husband and Frank Churchill also about to enter.

“Has Mr. Churchill’s condition declined?” she asked.

“We were not told.” Mr. Knightley opened the door.

Edgar Churchill lay prostrate beneath a sheet. Mr. Perry, his round face and keen eyes bearing an unusually grave expression, stood over him. The apothecary had removed his own coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, which he now restored to their proper position at his wrists. Two maids gathered soiled linen; despite the chill, a window had been opened.

“My uncle is worse?” Frank asked.

“I am terribly sorry, Mr. Churchill. Your uncle is dead.”

Emma gasped.

“How can that be?” Frank exclaimed. “You assured me earlier that he would be fine — that you would see to his care. Mr. Knightley informed us all that he was sleeping.”

“He was — so deeply that he did not waken, even when he evacuated his stomach. After the servants tidied him up and put him into a nightshirt, he continued to sleep soundly, though his pulse was quite rapid and his breathing turned shallow. I did not anticipate that he would stop breathing altogether.” Mr. Perry ran a hand through his thinning hair. The loss of a patient, even one so little known to him, clearly distressed him. “I could not revive him — it was as if his lungs had simply forgotten their duty.”

“He had but three glasses of wine,” Frank said. “I have seen him drink more with no ill effect.”

“You knew him better than I,” Mr. Perry said, “but he did not appear tonight to be a man who can hold his liquor.”

“His conduct this evening was most unusual. I cannot account for it, except that he has not been himself since my aunt’s death, most particularly this se’nnight past.”

“Had he any wine or other spirits before coming here?” Mr. Knightley asked. “He seemed quite agitated about your having entered into your engagement with Jane Fairfax without his knowledge. Perhaps he was not as favorably disposed to the marriage as you believed, and dwelled upon his displeasure over Madeira or brandy before coming to dinner.”

“Nay, only tea, which we took with the Westons at half past four.” He approached his uncle, touched his hand. “I regret the pain all the secrecy surrounding our betrothal caused. Yet it was necessary at the time. Who could have imagined, when I met Jane, that within a twelvemonth I would have my independence? That I would lose both aunt and uncle in so short a span? I would not have dreamed it, nor wished it, for the world.”

Indeed, Emma thought, who could have imagined the two deaths occurring so unexpectedly? And with such fortuitous results for one individual?

Frank stepped away from the lifeless body. “I must impart the news to Jane before the rest of the company learns of it. What a somber end to our celebration! And what an odd homecoming it will be when I bring my bride to Enscombe — installing her as mistress and myself as master all at once.” He left to find his wife.

Emma felt sorrow for both the misters Churchill. This was a shocking loss to Frank, particularly following so rapidly upon the death of his aunt. She could not help but also realize the unpleasant repercussions of this event to herself. Surely this was the most infamous dinner party in Highbury’s history! One of their most prominent guests had died — practically at the dining table. She could envision now how Mrs. Elton would describe the event in her next letter to Maple Grove.

No one would ever dine at Donwell again. Everybody would assume—

Her stomach churned. What if their assumptions proved true? What if, in fact, it was not drink that had killed Mr. Churchill, but spoiled partridge or tainted mussels, or some lethal root mistaken by the cook for horseradish?

“Mr. Perry, might he have died because of something he ate?”

“Unless others were ill when you left them just now, I doubt it was anything you served.” He offered a reassuring half-smile. “You need not fear having inadvertently poisoned your guests, Mrs. Knightley. Mr. Churchill’s distress seemed to have begun before anybody even entered the dining room. I believe the rest of us are quite safe.”

Emma’s uneasiness diminished, but Mr. Knightley now frowned.

“Perry, what do you believe caused Edgar Churchill’s death?”

“He could have ingested something earlier that did not agree with him, perhaps with his tea. One might expect, were this the case, that Frank Churchill and the Westons would be suffering similar effects if they took tea together. Edgar Churchill, however, was older, and would be more vulnerable to any virulence that he happened to encounter, particularly if he was already suffering melancholy due to the recent loss of his wife.”

The apothecary put on his coat, buttoning it across his generous paunch. “I know nothing about Edgar Churchill’s state of health before tonight,” he added. “It may be that he took medicine for some malady and accidentally used too much.”

“What sort of medicine? Laudanum?”

Mr. Perry shook his head. “Several of his symptoms do not correspond with opium overdose. Laudanum contracts the pupils, whereas his were quite dilated, and does not excite but slows the pulse. As I have also not observed among patients taking laudanum the sort of raving in which Mr. Churchill indulged, I would suspect another drug to be the agent of his demise, if it was caused by any drug at all. Perhaps Frank can tell you whether his uncle was taking remedies for any complaints.”

“Could more be determined by examining Edgar Churchill’s remains?” Mr. Knightley asked.

“I doubt it, but I can make an attempt. I need to retrieve some instruments from my office, however.”

Mr. Perry departed, leaving the Knightleys with the uncomfortable business of breaking the news to their guests.

“We should return to the drawing room,” Emma stated, “and attempt to control what is said of this matter — if word has not somehow reached everybody’s ears already. Doubtless, the servants are talking amongst themselves, and Frank Churchill’s disclosure to Jane might have been overheard.”

“Frank Churchill is a man capable of great secrecy when it suits him.”

“Do you intend to ask him about his uncle’s general health?”

Her husband was silent for a minute. “I have several questions for Frank Churchill.”

Emma did not like his tone. “Surely you do not believe Edgar Churchill’s death to be anything but a most unfortunate accident?”

“As Frank Churchill himself stated only minutes ago, his uncle’s death results in his inheriting a handsome estate just as he is taking a wife and starting a family of his own. I would not be a very competent magistrate if I failed to notice the coincidence.”

“Frank Churchill is as shocked by this event as we are.”

“Not too shocked to immediately realize the benefit of it to himself.”

Of course he had realized it — Frank was only human, after all. She herself had even thought almost immediately of the likely gossip and its effect on her own reputation in the village. It was not a reaction of which she was proud, but it was natural.

“You are unjust. From the moment Frank first came to Highbury — nay, before he even visited the village — you did not like him. All Highbury adored him, yet you privately expressed to me criticism of his character that I daresay you continue to harbor. You believed him derelict in his duty toward his father whilst he served the will of his rich aunt and uncle, the very people towards whom you now accuse him of not feeling enough. Could not your prejudice against him be causing your distrust?”

“I neither accuse nor suspect Frank Churchill of anything at present. But even did I not have a responsibility as magistrate, a guest has died in our house, and until the cause is clear, I cannot be easy. Nor, I should think, could you, given that this event will doubtless be the talk of the village for months.”

“Highbury will not think ill of Frank, and neither should you. Now, come assist me in disbanding this party and mitigating the inevitable gossip.”

“I am afraid no one can leave Donwell quite yet. One of our guests might have observed something regarding Mr. Churchill that we did not, and I want to speak with each person while his memory is untarnished.”

Emma regarded him in horror. “You are not going to conclude Frank and Jane’s marriage fête by interrogating all their friends and family?”

“I will merely ask a few questions of each guest, in as discreet a manner as possible — a brief but personal conversation. I shall give the appearance of breaking the news of Edgar Churchill’s death gently and individually.”

Emma inwardly cringed. Mr. Knightley’s straightforward manner — which she considered one of his most admirable qualities — would doubtless defeat all his intentions of delicacy.

“Will you allow me to assist you?”

“You can aid me best by keeping everyone calm and diverted while I conduct the tête-à-têtes.”

“Then perhaps one of the other parish officials? There are so many guests that it will take you all night to question them.”

“Whom else can I trust to handle this properly? Mr. Elton? His vanity would turn the process into a witch hunt. Mr. Weston? As much as I esteem him and his friendship, and value his help in other matters, under these circumstances he is entirely the wrong person to further involve in the affair. Not only does his connexion to the Churchills render him biased, but he is of too social a disposition. He would take every person he interviewed into our trust, and there would be the end of any confidentiality.”

Though Emma loved the avuncular Mr. Weston, she had to concede Mr. Knightley’s assessment of his fitness for this particular duty. The man possessed such an open, honest character that he was constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret.

“What about Mr. Cole or Mr. Cox?” she suggested.

“They have no experience with investigations, and their connexion to the Churchills is slight; their involvement at this stage would appear odd enough to inspire the very speculation and gossip we hope to discourage. The one person I might depend upon is Mr. Perry. Though he serves as our coroner, his interest would most likely be seen as medically, not legally, motivated. But his time at present is better spent examining Mr. Churchill’s remains, and I want to conduct the interviews and disperse immaterial witnesses as quickly as possible. No, I am afraid I must do this myself.”

As there was no dissuading him, Emma returned to the drawing room to divert her guests’ attention from a process which, despite Mr. Knightley’s characterizing it as a series of “personal conversations,” had to her all the hallmarks of an inquisition.

Fortunately, Edgar Churchill had interacted with only his most intimate acquaintances whilst in the drawing room, and Frank, though he had flitted from group to group, had in his usual style said little of consequence, so most of the guests had observed nothing of import and were released fairly quickly. They all might see their beds before the hour grew unconscionably late. Emma was particularly eager to send her father home, as word of anyone’s death was sure to upset him. The Westons took the news of Edgar Churchill’s demise particularly hard, and Miss Bates’s exclamations, though heartfelt, were enough to inspire a hasty retreat by every member of the company even had propriety not.

Despite her warm defense of Frank, Emma could not dismiss Mr. Knightley’s skepticism from her mind as she encouraged their overnight guests to retire to their individual chambers, and saw the rest depart. There would be no more merriment, let alone matchmaking, among this assembly. Guests originally expected to stay a se’nnight were already forming plans to leave on the morrow. So much for her hopes regarding Miss Bates. The only person’s prospects that had improved this evening were Frank’s.

Yes, it was most inconsiderate of Edgar Churchill to die during his nephew’s marriage celebration.

But for his nephew, it was also most convenient.