“I thought I should do so before the day’s tasks overtook me.” The breeze swelled, prompting Mrs. Weston to shiver and cross her arms over the front of her spencer. “We go to London soon for Frank and Jane’s wedding, and there are still countless details to oversee for the dinner party.”
“Donwell Abbey could not be blessed with a more capable housekeeper. Depend upon it, Mrs. Hodges has everything in order.”
“I am entirely confident that she does. It is only that…”
Such was the accord between them that Emma’s friend did not need to complete the sentence for Emma to know her apprehension. Though still rather new to her role as stepmother, Mrs. Weston’s affection for Frank equaled his father’s. As a young militia officer with no fortune of his own, the newly widowed Mr. Weston had, of necessity, commended his three-year-old son to his late wife’s wealthy brother and sister-in-law, Edgar and Agnes Churchill, who had raised him as their own while Mr. Weston earned his place in the world. Now that Frank was grown and heir to the Churchill fortune — he had even taken the name “Churchill” upon reaching his majority — there was nothing of a material nature that he needed from Mr. Weston. Frank’s legacy from his father and new mother, therefore, comprised unconditional love: the one asset he had found wanting on the grand estate of Enscombe. Fondness and regard had been shown, but never — particularly on his late aunt’s part — unconditionally.
“This party is Mr. Weston’s opportunity to act as a father by his son,” Emma finished. “And you want all to go off perfectly.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Weston admitted. “Do thank Mr. Knightley once more for his trouble on our behalf. I hope you already know that you have my unending gratitude.”
“Mr. Knightley considers it no trouble, and neither do I,” Emma said. “He has great respect for all of you, and has always held a high opinion of Jane Fairfax.”
Jane, like Frank, had been raised elsewhere; left orphaned and fortuneless as a young girl, she had been taken in by her father’s friend Colonel Campbell and educated along with his own daughter in London. Her frequent visits to her aunt and grandmother, however, had given all Highbury a proprietary interest in her, and she was generally acknowledged to be one of the most pretty and accomplished young ladies the village had ever produced. Emma, however, had never cultivated a close friendship with Jane, despite their being the same age; she had found Jane’s reserved nature unamiable.
Their ambling had taken them round the back of the house, where a peddler’s cart stood just outside the servants’ entrance.
“Now, there is an unusual sight,” Emma said. “I cannot recall the last time a peddler visited Highbury.”
“Oh, how fortunate!” Mrs. Weston said. “I am in need of lace for a handkerchief I am making for Jane to carry with her on her wedding day. I could not find anything at Ford’s that quite suited, and thought I would have to obtain some when I arrived in London. Perhaps this peddler has something more to my liking and can spare me the necessity of seeking it in town.”
“You would willingly forgo an opportunity to visit a London lace merchant? You so seldom go to town, and have not been at all since Anna was born.”
“Only in the interest of expediency — our time in London will be so brief, and most of it commanded by others. And only if the peddler has something that indeed satisfies my purpose.”
They went within, where they found a goodly assortment of wares arranged on the kitchen worktables, and nearly every servant at Randalls arranged round their seller. There were cooking utensils and sewing notions, hammered tins and wooden boxes, garden implements and currycombs, baskets and tools. One of the footmen examined a set of fire-irons, while Mr. Weston’s valet inspected a razor.
The female servants, however, all devoted their full attention to the peddler.
He was a respectable-looking fellow, a tall, well-built man of years that approximated Mr. Knightley’s. His clothing and person were neat and clean. He wore his hair short, but the brown locks would not be tamed, and they curled round his head in a willful fashion that was not unbecoming. Lively, intelligent blue eyes and gentlemanlike features formed a countenance that was altogether pleasant to look upon.
At least, all the maids seemed of that opinion as they listened to him describe the uses of various cordials in a case he balanced on his left arm against his chest. “I obtained these directly from a gypsy herb-woman. They are great healers, the gypsies, and I’ve a fine stock of remedies for whatever might ail you or anyone in the household.”
Emma wondered what the village apothecary might think of the peddler’s infringing on his business. Her father would be quite discomposed by the notion of anyone’s curative talents exceeding those of his most capable and valued Mr. Perry.
“This,” he continued, holding up a small bottle for all to see, “contains elixir of a different sort.” A mischievous cast overtook his expression. He looked at one of the youngest maids. She was a pretty, well-mannered girl, the daughter of Hartfield’s coachman. “What do you suppose it does?” he asked her.
The housemaid blushed at having the handsome peddler’s full attention directed toward herself. “I–I cannot guess.”
“A sip before bed, and dream of he you’ll wed.”
One of the kitchen maids giggled. “Hannah’s too young to be thinkin’ such thoughts.” Despite the scullery maid’s appearing not much older than Hannah, her expression suggested that the peddler himself would play a prominent role in her own reveries, with or without the assistance of any draught.
“No one is too young, or too old, to dream.” The peddler’s voice deepened the flush of Hannah’s cheeks. “Here.” He offered the philtre to Hannah.
“But I haven’t money for such—”
He shook his head. “It is yours.” As she timidly accepted the gift, he winked. “But you must promise to tell me one year hence if it worked.”
Hannah lowered her eyes, but smiled.
He set the box upon the closest table, and it was only then that Emma made a startling discovery: The peddler had but one hand. His left arm simply ended at the wrist. Whether the appendage had been absent from birth or lost later, she could not determine. It appeared, however, that he enjoyed full use of the arm, and had learned to compensate for the missing hand so proficiently that he was scarcely impaired by its lack. He handled his merchandise with dexterity that rivaled that of any ten-fingered trader, and handled his audience still more deftly.
Emma perceived something vaguely familiar about Mr. Deal, but could not identify precisely what inspired the impression. As the peddler enumerated the superior attributes of a copper teakettle, he caught sight of Emma and Mrs. Weston, and offered a silent bow. The gesture alerted the housekeeper to their presence, and she now commanded her staff’s attention.
“Everybody has been idle long enough,” she announced. “Should you want an item for use in household duties, I will consider it. If you care to purchase anything for yourself, do so and return to work.”
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.”