Darcy enjoyed perfect health, but he wanted Mr. Perry to have a look at the preparations. “I will take them all.”
“The third is for female complaints.”
Darcy cleared his throat, declining to enquire into the particular complaints the concoction purported to cure. “My wife may find it of use. I shall purchase it while I have the opportunity.”
“Very good, sir.” Mr. Deal smiled. “Though I suspect it is hardly the birthday gift you had in mind.” He gestured toward the cart. “Have you spotted anything else that might delight her? Is she musical? I have the most unusual wooden flute—”
Darcy shook his head and scanned the cart once more. Nowhere amid the coffers and cases lay the chest he had hoped to discover. If his stolen possessions were amongst the peddler’s wares, they were well hidden.
A small doll, however, caught his notice. It reminded him of Lily-Anne, and the hope that he would see her again before much more time passed. Though Darcy had no intention of purchasing the doll, Mr. Deal noticed that it had momentarily captured his gaze.
“Ah — are there little ones at home? I have some colorful glass beads that children adore. Where did I put that sack?” He moved to another side of the wagon in search of it.
Darcy spied a cloth bag with rounded bulges protruding from its sides. “Is this it?” He untied the drawstring.
“No, no. I remember stowing it over here. Those are—”
Sling bullets. Darcy kept his countenance neutral as he glanced at the peddler.
“… not what you are looking for.” Mr. Deal smiled, but the expression appeared forced. “Those would hardly delight a little girl now, would they? Just set those down — what you want is over here.”
Darcy did not set them aside. Instead, he removed one of the bullets from the sack. The missile appeared to be the same shape and weight as the one found at the robbery scene that morning. Mr. Knightley, however, had retained that bullet, and presently remained some yards distant engaged in conversation with his tenant.
“Yes, here are the beads.” Mr. Deal came back to Darcy’s side of the cart with a sack tucked under his left arm and several beads in the palm of his single hand. “Little girls love to play with them, and governesses use them to teach counting and simple arithmetic.”
“I will take them. And these as well.” Darcy pulled the drawstring shut and lifted the sack. The one sling bullet, however, he retained in his palm, not wanting to let it leave his grasp.
“Oh, I see — you must also have a son. Of course you cannot remember one child without remembering them all, if you want to keep peace. But hardly anybody uses slings — perhaps your boy would be more interested in something else. How old is he? Does he practice archery? I have some arrows with colorful fletching.”
“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.
“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.”