Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

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.

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 .”