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 tin. “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.
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.”