“No, the bullets will suffice. Do they have a story?”
The peddler looked ruefully at the bag and shrugged. “Not a very interesting one. I obtain them from a man in Richmond.”
Darcy noted Mr. Deal’s use of the present tense. “These were not a one-time acquisition—he supplies you regularly?”
“When I have need.”
“As you said, slings are not a weapon in common use. I wager there are few people who possess the throwing skill to make purchasing molded ammunition worthwhile. Have you regular customers for the bullets?”
“They are yours if you want them—you will not leave me short.”
That was not what Darcy had asked. “Have you slings for sale, as well?”
“No, only the bullets.”
Darcy nodded. “Well, then, I believe I have done for today. How much do I owe you for the merchandise?”
Mr. Deal stated the total. Darcy took money from his purse and handed it to the peddler. Then he withdrew an additional coin.
“Do you accept commissions?”
Mr. Deal’s gaze rested for several seconds on the silver, then rose to meet Darcy’s. His eyes reflected interest—but also caution. “What do you seek?”
“Two things: a small chest, and information. The chest contains a set of christening clothes and a woman’s signet ring with the initials A.F. Should anyone approach you with these items for sale or trade, I would make it worth your trouble to see that they reach me.” Darcy studied Mr. Deal’s countenance as he said this, but the peddler betrayed no indication that he was already familiar with the stolen articles. “I am also willing to pay for intelligence regarding the identities or whereabouts of the persons from whom you acquired them.”
Mr. Deal studied Darcy in silence for a minute, but Darcy sensed the peddler had been taking his measure all the while he had been assessing Deal.
“And should I come across these goods in the course of business,” Mr. Deal finally said, “where might I find you?”
“I am presently a guest of Mr. and Mrs. Knightley at Donwell Abbey, though I am uncertain how long I shall stay. If I have departed by the time you call, simply leave word with them that you wish to contact Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. They will know where I can be found.”
Darcy placed the coin in the peddler’s palm.
Fifteen
“As you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have.”
—Mr. Knightley, Emma
Emma was well pleased with the campaign under way for refurbishing Miss Bates’s sitting room. Not only was the space in dire want of attention, but it was her hope that the project might prove the means by which an attachment between Miss Bates and Thomas Dixon formed. That Mr. Dixon had taken such particular notice of Miss Bates’s circumstances, and rather than responding with disdain or aversion had not only immediately initiated action to improve them, but also wished to be so directly involved in the affair himself, boded well. If romantic inclinations did not already kindle his interest, surely with proper management he would, by the time the last drapery was hung, desire an even more dramatic transformation: installing Miss Bates as Mrs. Dixon in his own abode. He would, that is, if Emma had her way about it.
Indeed, upon conceiving the notion, Emma had extended their call longer than intended to subtly advance the match. She conceded to herself that it was, on its surface, not the most likely of alliances, but more improbable attachments had been known to occur.
She and Mrs. Darcy left the small apartment only when Mr. Dixon himself departed to engage one of the Crown’s horses for the morrow so that he might complete posthaste his promised errands in London. “It must bring you pleasure to know how much happiness your endeavors will create for such a deserving lady,” Emma said to him as they reached the base of the stairs.
He held the door open for them. “Yes. Mrs. Churchill certainly deserves a return to happiness after the events of last night. At least she will be able to settle in Yorkshire confident that her aunt and grandmother are comfortable here.”
Mr. Dixon had mistaken Emma’s meaning. Why ever would he think she referred to Jane? “I was speaking of Miss Bates.”
“Oh, yes! Her happiness goes without saying. Who could fail to find joy in new wallpaper?”
Though she had hoped for a few additional minutes’ conversation with him to advance her plan, Mr. Dixon split off as soon as they entered the street. She could only fancy that his passion for Miss Bates was already too great for words.
Emma and Mrs. Darcy proceeded toward Donwell Lane. Near the corner stood Mr. Deal’s cart, where the peddler was showing Mr. Wallis a pair of pie tins. Emma wondered that the person who had operated the village bakery for some five-and-twenty years could be in want of more pie tins, but Mr. Wallis was easily persuadable these days. The unfortunate man had not been the same since he lost his wife last summer. For that matter, neither had his pies.
Just as they arrived at the cart, Miss Bates’s voice reached her ears. “Mrs. Knightley! Mrs. Knightley—oh, do stop!”
Emma and Mrs. Darcy both turned round. Miss Bates hurried to them, quite out of breath. Emma’s basket hung from one hand. In her rush to quit the apartment at the same time as Mr. Dixon, Emma had entirely forgotten it.
“Dear Miss Bates!” Emma took the basket from her hand. “Thank you—how good of you to bring it to me.”
“Well, it was so kind of you to bring us the apple butter. There is nothing we like more than apples this time of year—apple butter, apple cider, apple dumplings . . .”
“And baked apples, I trust,” said Mr. Wallis. He had a gentle, quiet manner well suited to a man who had spent every morning of his life working in the predawn stillness setting dough to rise. “I planned to bring yours over as soon as I finished with Mr. Deal.” He offered Miss Bates a smile, the first Emma had seen from him since his wife’s passing.
“Baked apples are our favorite! Oh, I am delighted that they are ready! Jane is in our sitting room at this very moment, and you know how she loves baked apples. Nothing so wholesome—why, even Mr. Woodhouse approves them. Yes, do send your boy over with the apples as soon as you can.”
“I shall do better and bring them myself.”
Mr. Wallis smiled again. Emma, her mind predisposed to interpret any man’s attention toward Miss Bates as an opportunity to thwart Mrs. Elton’s scheme, contemplated whether the widower would make a suitable alternate in the event her hopes for Mr. Dixon went unrealized. Though not a gentleman, he made a comfortable living, and as Mrs. Elton had so haughtily noted, the spinster was long past the point of being too particular. Plus, Miss Bates could serve Jane baked apples whenever she wished.
“Oh, Mr. Wallis, you are kindness itself! That you would take such trouble to personally deliver our apples. Jane will be so touched. Perhaps an apple will help cheer her after this wretched occurrence with Edgar Churchill.”
“Yes, I heard he died suddenly. Please give my condolences to your niece and nephew.” Mr. Wallis handed the pie tins back to Mr. Deal. He neglected, however, to look at the peddler as he did so—his gaze focused on Miss Bates—and he absently thrust them toward Deal’s left side. Before Mr. Deal could grab them with his sole hand, they clattered to the ground.
“Oh, dear!” Miss Bates rushed forward to help Mr. Deal retrieve the tins from the road.
Mr. Wallis stepped back, embarrassed at having directed the tins toward a hand that did not exist. “How clumsy of me! I am so sorry.”
“It is nothing.” Mr. Deal tucked one tin under his arm, and reached for the second. He grasped it just as Miss Bates also took hold of it, and the two of them rose, the tin clutched between them.
“Oh!” Flustered, Miss Bates released the tin to him. “I suppose you did not need my help.—No, certainly did not.—Quite capable, of course.”
“On the contrary, I thank you for coming to my rescue.” He made an exaggerated bow, then proffered the t
in. “Please—accept this as a token of my appreciation.”
Miss Bates laughed self-consciously, unaccustomed to gallantry—real or playful—from anybody. “That is most kind of you, but unnecessary—truly—happy to help wherever I can—would have done the same for anyone—you have been so generous already—the combs—”
“Did you wear them to the party?”
“I did! I never felt so elegant!”
“And your mother—did she enjoy herself?”
“Oh, yes—thank you for enquiring. We both did, until the evening took such an unfortunate turn . . .”
Mrs. Darcy stepped closer to Emma. “Mrs. Elton just entered the street,” she said quietly. “Is the person with her Mr. Simon?”
Emma followed Mrs. Darcy’s gaze. To her chagrin, the vicar’s wife indeed walked with Harry Simon, and the pair progressed toward them. It appeared, however, that Mrs. Elton had not yet taken notice of the persons assembled at the peddler’s cart.
“Miss Bates,” Emma interjected, “perhaps this would be a good time for Mr. Wallis to deliver your apples. If you accompanied him to the bakery, he could then walk with you back to your house.” Emma hoped the errand would also enable Miss Bates to elicit another shy smile from the baker.
Mr. Wallis, still looking uncomfortable following his blunder, seized upon the chance to escape. “I can fetch them now, if you like.”
“I—” Miss Bates glanced back to Mr. Deal as if she had something more to say but had forgotten what it was. As she was seldom in want of words, her expression held some confusion as she addressed Mr. Wallis. “Certainly—of course I shall go with you this minute. I must return to Jane, and to arrive with baked apples will surprise her indeed. Yes, let us go directly.”
“Miss Bates—”
Emma wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. Why must the peddler persist in prolonging his exchange with Miss Bates? If only he knew what was at stake.
“—you have forgotten something.” Mr. Deal once more offered the pie tin.
Emma took the tin from Hiram Deal, handed it to Miss Bates, and nudged her toward Mr. Wallis. “Mr. Dixon’s errand at the Crown surely will not take long, and then he will escort Mrs. Churchill back to Randalls. It would be a shame if you returned with the apples only to discover that they departed in your absence.”
“Oh! I had not considered that! Dear me! We cannot risk Jane’s leaving before I return. Mr. Wallis, let us go at once. Thank you, Mr. Deal, for the tin. So generous! Indeed, I hardly know what to say. . . .”
If the peddler responded, Emma missed his reply, so concentrated was her attention on Mrs. Elton.
“Pray, excuse me for a moment,” she said to Mrs. Darcy.
Sixteen
The Overton Scotchman has been kind enough to rid me of some of my money, in exchange for six shifts and four pair of stockings.
—Jane Austen, letter to her sister, Cassandra
Left alone with Mr. Deal, Elizabeth scanned the contents of his cart. She most wanted information, but doubted she would find intelligence regarding Miss Jones and her own stolen goods on display amid the housewares and muslins. She had already determined, during the peddler’s exchange with Miss Bates, that her chest was not amongst the closed boxes and trunks visible in the back of the cart. Some of them, however, were of a size that could easily accommodate the christening clothes and ring. She gestured towards the cases. “You appear to have already begun putting away your wares for the day.”
“On the contrary, I am still setting up.”
“So late in the afternoon?” It could hardly be worth the trader’s while to arrange all his merchandise so close to the arrival of dusk. Almost as soon as he had everything in place, he would have to put it away again.
“I had other business to attend to this morning. If you do not see what you desire, simply name it, for I might indeed have it amongst my stock.”
“I find when dealing with peddlers that it is best not to come with a particular item in mind, for one never knows what treasure might be discovered quite by accident.”
“Then, madam, you are a customer after my own heart. May I therefore take the liberty of selecting a few items to show you?”
“I am a discriminating buyer. I should like to begin with the newest merchandise you have, rather than articles that have already been passed over by countless others.”
She hoped by this statement that he would produce her belongings if they had come into his possession. But such ease of recovery was not to be. Deal showed her many useful items and decorative objects, but neither the signet ring nor the christening set appeared. She endeavored to disguise her disappointment; after all, a woman who claimed to be seeking nothing specific could not very well appear dismayed at failing to find it.
Mr. Deal himself, she determined to be an amiable fellow—genial, considerate, warm. And he was handsome, though not so handsome as Darcy. Though it would have been a relief to recover her stolen possessions by discovering them amongst his wares, she found herself somehow glad of their absence, for she did not want to think him an accessory to robbery—or worse, himself one of the thieves. He was by turns amusing and instructive, and she quite enjoyed their conversation as he showcased his wide range of wares.
She selected a pair of patterned silk stockings, which she did not need—at least not for their usual purpose. Still hoping to obtain whatever information she could from the peddler, she sought to buy his goodwill along with the stockings.
She handed him her coins. “I had heard from one of your customers that I might obtain nearly anything imaginable from you, and I am begun to believe that is true.”
Mr. Deal removed a pouch from an inner pocket of his coat, set it on a shelf built into the side of the cart, and loosened the drawstring. “And whom might I thank for the praise?”
The source had been Mrs. Knightley, and Elizabeth nearly named her. But on impulse she said, “Miss Jones.”
It was a gamble, her attempt to lead him into revealing a relationship that might not in fact exist. Miss Jones had not, of course, said anything whatsoever about Hiram Deal. But if, as Elizabeth and Darcy speculated, she and her accomplices had approached the peddler to sell their stolen goods, he might inadvertently reveal their association.
“Indeed?” Deal counted out her change. “I do not believe I have met a Miss Jones since arriving in Highbury.”
“She is a young woman, perhaps sixteen. Petite. Blond hair, blue eyes?”
He smiled as he dropped three shillings into her palm. “You have just described half the girls in Britain. I am afraid I have no recollection of this particular one.”
“Are you certain? She was quite pretty.”
“Every English village boasts pretty young maids. And a few old maids. I am more likely to recall the latter, for too often, the former are all the same.”
Further conversation was disrupted by the reappearance of Mrs. Knightley, who returned with a self-satisfied expression on her face and Harry Simon in tow. Mrs. Elton looked on from a distance, and Elizabeth needed no closer proximity to feel the displeasure radiating from the vicar’s wife.
“Mr. Simon has business with my husband,” Mrs. Knightley said. “As there is no time like the present, I have suggested that he accompany us back to Donwell to speak with Mr. Knightley.”
Harry Simon was being whisked off to Donwell and away from Miss Bates. No wonder Mrs. Knightley was so pleased, and Mrs. Elton so vexed.
Mr. Simon glanced at the peddler’s inventory with eyes as wide as a child’s, his gaze lighting first on one item, then another. “I do not believe I have ever seen so—so—so many—what is that?”
Mr. Deal smiled. “A wooden flute.” He picked up the intricately carved instrument and offered it to Mr. Simon. “Would you like to try it?”
Mr. Simon looked as if he would like to try it very much indeed. However, Mrs. Knightley, with a glance in Mrs. Elton’s direction, gently drew Mr. Simon away.
“We have not
time, Mr. Simon, if you want to speak with Mr. Knightley. You can peruse the peddler’s wares tomorrow.”
Before Mrs. Elton could waylay them with a manufactured excuse to retain Mr. Simon for her own purposes, they took leave of Mr. Deal and set forth for Donwell. As the shadows were grown long and the temperature falling, Elizabeth was grateful to be turning their steps towards the warmth of her temporary abode. She was also eager to see Darcy again, and hear whether he and Mr. Knightley had learned anything of use this afternoon.
“Mrs. Knightley, do you—do you think the peddler sells hair ribbons?”
“He does.” She regarded him curiously. “Why do you ask?”
“I want to buy one for Doris.”
“Doris?”
“Doris Cooper.”
“Mrs. Cooper’s eldest? Is she a friend?”
“She comes each day to cook and such. Been coming since she was twelve. The same year we bought our cow. She’s calved one, two—three times.” He paused. “The cow, not Doris.”
Both ladies smiled. “So I presumed,” Mrs. Knightley said.
“Lost her hair ribbon a few days ago. Doris, not the cow. I found it later all shredded by one of the chickens. I want to get her a new one. I saw a girl this morning about Doris’s age with a pretty pink ribbon in her hair. She was talking to the peddler, so I thought maybe she got it from him. Was going to ask him, but then we had to leave.”
“I think it is lovely that you want to replace her ribbon. If Mr. Deal does not have any more, you can certainly find one at Ford’s.”
They arrived at Donwell. Though invigorated by their walk, Elizabeth was happy to retreat from the brisk air and gathering dusk. Her nose and cheeks tingled with cold, and she longed for the warmth of a glowing hearth. Parting from Mrs. Knightley and Mr. Simon, she went to her chamber in hopes of finding an established fire and Darcy.
The Intrigue at Highbury Page 13