Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

“Trust me, they will be grateful for the company.”

Mrs. Knightley knocked upon the door. Voices within indicated that at least one other visitor was with the ladies. She and Mrs. Knightley were not only intruding, Elizabeth thought ruefully, but also unlikely to obtain a glimpse of the letter depending upon who was present.

Miss Bates was delighted by their arrival. “Oh, do come in! Mother, look who has come! It is Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Darcy. You remember Mrs. Darcy? Darcy . What an impromptu little party we are forming! Mrs. Darcy, can you guess who else is here?” She moved aside to allow them passage into the apartment.

At the tea table sat Miss Jones.

Elizabeth endeavored to disguise her chagrin. Loretta Jones was the last person before whom she wanted to broach the subject of Mr. Deal’s letter. She still did not know quite what to make of the relationship between the young woman and the peddler. Though Rawnie Zsófia had refuted any romantic attraction on Mr. Deal’s part, Loretta’s words this morning suggested a rather proprietary interest in the man.

Miss Jones seemed equally discomposed by Elizabeth and Mrs. Knightley’s appearance in the apartment. She forced a laugh. “How very unexpected, Mrs. Darcy, to see you again today.”

“Indeed. I had no idea you were a friend of Miss Bates.”

“My mother and I were just getting better acquainted with Miss Jones,” Miss Bates said. “Do sit down.”

The parlor looked much the same as it had upon Elizabeth’s last visit, right down to old Mrs. Bates knitting in her customary place. Apparently, Thomas Dixon had not yet implemented any of his grand plans for the room. Elizabeth wondered whether the elderly lady was among the few furnishings he would allow Miss Bates to keep.

Miss Bates adjusted her mother’s lap blanket. “Are you warm enough, Mother? To me it feels quite warm over here by the fire, but I know you are often cold. Do you need your shawl? Your shawl ? No? Do but say the word if you change your mind.” She drifted back towards the tea table, where a pair of cups, one overturned onto its saucer, rested near a small pot. “Miss Jones has come to tell my fortune. You have arrived just in time to hear it.”

Elizabeth supposed the fortune-telling trade was not as lucrative as Miss Jones had hoped, if she was going door to door attempting to increase business. “I did not realize, Miss Jones, that fortune-tellers make house calls.”

“For particular persons, I do.” She smiled at her hostess. “As Miss Bates said, we are getting better acquainted.”

“I am so glad you came by, Miss Jones! Indeed, at first I declined to have my fortune read, did I not? But afterwards, I said to myself, ‘Now, Hetty, what is the harm?’ I hoped perhaps Miss Jones could read Mr. Deal’s fortune for me, that I might learn how long he will be consigned to that horrible gaol. But she says that is not the way such things work — he is not here to drink his own tea, which is required. — Do I have it right, Miss Jones? — I have been learning all about fortune-telling this evening! One must drink one’s tea and then swirl the leaves to get a proper reading, she tells me. I cannot do it on Mr. Deal’s behalf. Though, in a sense, it would be Mr. Deal’s tea, as it came from him. Is that not sad, that his tea should be here but not him?”

“Whatever do you mean, Miss Bates?” asked Mrs. Knightley.

“Why, the tea was a gift from Mr. Deal! He took tea with my mother and me yesterday, and afterwards he left us a lovely note expressing his thanks, and a small parcel of tea. Oh! Now where did that note go? I showed it to Miss Jones, and now I cannot remember where I placed it. Do you recall, Miss Jones?”

Miss Jones glanced about, her brow furrowed. “I do not. But surely it will turn up.”

“I regret you have misplaced it,” Mrs. Knightley said. “I should like to see what sort of letter a peddler writes.”

“Oh, Mr. Deal writes a fine letter! Do you not agree, Miss Jones?”

“Yes, very fine.”

“When did you find the parcel?” Elizabeth asked.

“I went out around noon today, and there it was, just inside the door at the base of the stairs. Such a surprise! I do not know how I overlooked it earlier. And so thoughtful of Mr. Deal! I was going to save the tea for his next visit, but when I told Miss Jones of it, she encouraged me to use it tonight for the fortune-reading. She said if I used Mr. Deal’s tea and concentrated on a question pertaining to him while I drank it, the leaves might reveal the answer.”

“As there is much in question about Mr. Deal at present, I am sure you will have no trouble,” Mrs. Knightley said. “Except, perhaps, limiting the experiment to a single query.”

Elizabeth did not think Miss Bates ought to consume anything provided by Mr. Deal until the poisoning matter was resolved. “It seems a shame not to save the tea to enjoy with Mr. Deal. Maybe you should reconsider.”

Miss Bates laughed. “Oh, it is too late to reconsider now! The tea is already made. Would either of you care for some? There is plenty. My mother does not drink tea this late when we are at home — she says it keeps her awake — and Miss Jones declined. I have already drunk mine and swirled the leaves. Miss Jones was about to read them when I heard your knock. Why do not both of you take some, too, and we can all have our fortunes read together?”

“Miss Jones has already read my fortune, several days ago.” Alarm passed through Elizabeth at the news that Miss Bates had drunk the tea. She assessed Miss Bates for indications that the tea had been tainted. Unfortunately, Elizabeth realized that she had not the faintest idea what she ought to be looking for. To her untrained eye, Miss Bates appeared her usual self, if perhaps a little flushed from the excitement of visitors and fortune-telling.

Miss Bates reached for the pot. “What about you, Mrs. Knightley? Would you care for tea?”

“I think it has gone cold,” Miss Jones said. She moved the pot to the other side of the table and reached for one of the teacups. “Let us read your fortune, Miss Bates, before your impression fades from the leaves. Afterwards, we can make a fresh pot if anybody cares for a cup. Where is your maid? The remaining tea from this pot should be dumped so that nothing interferes with the signs.”

Elizabeth did not recall such interference having been a concern when Miss Jones told her fortune at the Crown; the would-be drabarni had embellished her patter with experience. Considering how unpracticed Loretta’s “dukkering” had been when she arrived in the village, Elizabeth could only imagine how she must have sounded while affecting to read Edgar Churchill’s leaves at the gypsy camp. The fortune that poor Nellie heard this morning had likely been far more intriguing and smoothly delivered than Edgar’s, at a fraction of the price. She wondered how much Miss Bates was being charged for this performance.

“Oh! Well! We certainly do not want anything to fade or interfere. Patty, come take away this pot for us. — She will be but a moment, I am sure. Can we begin? What must I do?”

“Simply take a seat and keep still, so I may concentrate.”

“Ah, I can do that.” She sat down at the table, across from Miss Jones. “Right here — as I was before?”

“Yes, just so. Now, tell me the question you held in your mind as you drank the tea.”

Miss Bates closed her eyes and rested one hand on the table. “When will poor Mr. Deal return to his friends in Highbury?”

“You may open your eyes, Miss Bates. Let us see what the leaves say.” Miss Jones rotated the teacup. “Look — there is a D — and a trail of leaves — that means a journey.” She looked up at her client. “I said you may open your eyes, Miss Bates.”