“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.
[Miss Bates] was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. .. She loved every body, was interested in every body’s happiness, quicksighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings. .. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body, and a mine of felicity to herself.
— Emma
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.”
Mrs. Bates, seated by the fire in an upholstered chair that had seen more prosperous years, looked up from her knitting and smiled. From the blank expression of her eyes, Emma doubted she had heard a word. Her head bent back down over her needles, her hair so white that one could barely distinguish the thin strands from the mobcap that covered most of them.
“Only imagine — a year ago we had no notion of a wedding,” Miss Bates said. “We of course thought Jane would be working as a governess by now, as with no fortune of her own, those were her expectations. What a surprise it was to us all — was it not a great surprise, Mother? — when we learned she was secretly engaged to Frank Churchill during the whole of her visit here this past spring and summer! And neither of them able to say a word for fear of his being disinherited if his aunt learned of it.”
Though Emma pretended to accord Miss Bates her full attention, this was all information she had heard many times before. It was the spinster’s appearance, not words, that commandeered her interest. Her faded blue morning dress needed to be taken in, but was so worn as to make the effort futile. Beneath the thin muslin, however, Miss Bates had a pleasing figure — neither too plump nor too thin — and a darker shade of fabric might bring out the amber color of her eyes.
Emma knew that Miss Bates had made a new gown to wear to the wedding ceremony in London. Initially, Emma had attempted to offer guidance on the style and creation of the gown, but then the officious Mrs. Elton had inserted herself in the business and would have her own way about it. She had so commandeered the project that Emma had washed her hands of it rather than subject herself to Mrs. Elton’s pretensions as an arbiter of fashion. She now wondered at the result.
Miss Bates at last paused her discourse long enough for Emma to interject. “Have you finished the dress you plan to wear to the wedding?”
“Indeed, yes! Why, just yesterday I stitched on the last bead and Mrs. Elton declared it done. Would you care to see it?” Miss Bates set aside the letter and hurried into the bedroom, talking the whole way. “It was so generous of Frank — a new dress for me, and another for my mother. We are fortunate that Jane found such a fine young man. She says she never imagined when she went to Weymouth with the Campbells last autumn that she would fall in love.”
Miss Bates continued to voice her boundless gratitude to Frank Churchill, for not only having accompanied Jane to Layton and Shears to select the silk (“Layton and Shears — one of London’s finest linen-drapers!”), but also having paid for it (“Mr. Churchill insisted!”); for having traveled all the way from London to deliver the parcel himself (“and what a parcel it was! Not merely the fabric, but also a selection of trimmings!”); and for having also brought the most recent edition of Ackermann’s Repository so that she might see plates of the latest fashions.
She returned with the gown. To Emma’s dismay, it was far too youthful for a middle-aged spinster. Indeed, Emma herself would not have worn it, even at her coming-out. Double flounces, ells of ribbon, and abundant beadwork competed so vigorously for attention that one wanted to shut one’s eyes against the assault. Rather than choosing from the trimmings Frank had sent, she must have used them all.
Even Miss Bates regarded the dress with apprehension. “It is a little… fancier… than I am used to. But Mrs. Elton insisted this was ‘all the thing.’ It was so kind of her to help me, for I do not keep up with the styles as she does. Imagine — me, wearing such a fine dress! I think I shall be afraid to sit down in it.”
Mrs. Elton’s taste in attire appeared ostentatious enough on Mrs. Elton; on Miss Bates, the gown would look ridiculous. But anything was an improvement over the tired dresses that comprised the rest of her wardrobe, and Emma supposed she had no choice but to encourage her to wear it to the Donwell dinner party. Unless…
Unless the spinster had a more suitable alternative.
As Miss Bates rattled on about the process of constructing the gown, Emma’s mind turned upon hemlines and sleeve lengths for an entirely different garment. She would surprise Miss Bates with a new gown for the Donwell affair. It would have to be simple, for there was little time in which to make it, but a plainer dress would become Miss Bates more. It would certainly be more to the wearer’s taste. Indeed, Emma could have the pleasure of presenting to Miss Bates the dress she had wanted all along.
Material could be obtained at Ford’s — she had seen a pretty emerald-green sarcenet the last time she was there — and Miss Bates had just uttered her measurements from the dress newly completed. (At last, an advantage to the spinster’s repetitive discourse.) There was not enough time for Emma to do the sewing, even if she borrowed Hannah from Randalls, as she often did for needlework. She would have to bring in the London seamstress who had made her own wedding clothes.
But it could be done.
The more Emma contemplated the idea, the more enamored of it she became. Within a quarter hour she thought the enterprise quite brilliant.
She rose to depart. There was no time to waste if the new dress was to be ready in time for the ball. Even Emma was no fairy godmother.
Before she could take her leave, however, sounds of bustle in the street below sent Miss Bates to the window.
“Oh, it is the peddler! Mr. Deal, the one everybody has been talking of.” She turned to face the room. “Mother, the peddler is below. The peddler. PED-ler. The man of whom Mrs. Elton spoke.”
The old woman at last seemed to understand her daughter. At least, she nodded as if she did, her knitting needles never missing a purl.
Since Mr. Deal’s arrival in Highbury, the sight of the trader’s cart brought most other village activity to a standstill. Nellie, the scullery maid at Randalls, was hardly alone in her patent admiration of Mr. Deal. Parlor maids, chambermaids, dairymaids, still-room maids, laundry maids, nursery maids — in short, all manner of maids, along with a good many farmers’ and tradesmen’s daughters — suddenly found themselves in dire want of goods that simply could not be procured at Ford’s. Matrons regarded the handsome trader wistfully while buying one of his gypsy remedies for their husbands’ snoring or digestive ailments. Even Mr. Woodhouse, who as a rule distrusted strangers, had pronounced him “an acceptable fellow,” after he had called at Hartfield, but added that he hoped the peddler would not stay in Highbury long, and expressed apprehension as to his traveling about the country so much, particularly without a proper muffler round his neck against the wind.
Miss Bates’s attention returned to the street. “Look at all the people stopping to talk to him. There is Miss Cole. Oh — and Miss Nash from the school. He certainly seems to attract a crowd. I wonder what he has for sale today — I cannot quite see into his cart. Mrs. Elton says he sells all manner of things.”
“Have you not yet met him yourself?” Emma found it difficult to believe that a villager remained who had not yet encountered Mr. Deal.
“Whenever I hear of him, he is always just gone. He has never stopped this close to our house before.”
“Then let us go down.” Emma needed nothing for herself, but — in restrained quantities — one of the laces she had seen with Mrs. Weston would be the very thing to enhance the surprise dress she was planning.
Miss Bates was delighted by the proposal. “Not that we are likely to buy anything from him. We have so few needs — is that not right, Mother? Our friends are so kind that we have few needs — but there is no harm in seeing what he has for sale.”
Mrs. Bates elected to remain beside the fire with her knitting, but Patty, the Bates’s maid-of-all-work, begged leave to go down for a few minutes. Their departure was delayed while Miss Bates saw to it that her mother was comfortably settled, her spectacles adjusted, her workbag within reach, the fire screen positioned at just the proper distance.
In the time it took the three women to reach the street, still more customers had gathered round the peddler’s cart. Mr. Deal acknowledged Emma and Miss Bates with a nod as he extolled the workmanship of a locket that Miss Cole admired. When he had done, he greeted Emma and asked after her father’s health. The enquiry would please her father very much when she told him, as no topic of conversation delighted him more than discussions of anyone’s health, particularly his own.
Emma then introduced her companion. The peddler bowed to Miss Bates, a generous bow worthy of her former condition in life, and was all consideration. What was she in want of this morning, that he might have the privilege of supplying her?
“I—” Self-consciousness overtook her. “I do not know.”
It was the shortest reply Emma had ever heard Miss Bates utter.
He smiled. “Well, then, if you will allow me, I have a shawl that came into my mind the moment I saw you.”
His warm, genuine manner quite flustered Miss Bates, who, while yet the recipient of gracious conduct from Mr. Knightley, Mr. Woodhouse, and others secure enough in their social stations and in themselves to treat a gentlewoman with courtesy no matter her present circumstances, nevertheless had grown used to a certain amount of patronization from other individuals, particularly those whose own positions had risen as hers had sunk, and who needed to exalt themselves by reminding others of their inferior places. Mrs. Elton was one of these; her husband, though his public conduct was not as overt, in private was little better.
Certainly, the merchants of Highbury, many of them lifelong acquaintances, remained kind to Miss Bates, though her purchases, which had never been extravagant, had dwindled steadily in the years since her father’s passing. But Mr. Deal had a way of addressing a woman, any woman — nay, any person — as if the individual to whom he spoke was the only one present. Even in a crowd, each listener felt singled out. It was this ability, even more than his pleasing countenance, that so strongly drew others to him.
And left Miss Bates, for perhaps the first time in her life, tongue-tied.
Mr. Deal produced the shawl and permitted Miss Bates to put it around her shoulders. It indeed flattered her. Not only did it cover the unattractive old dress she wore, but its ivory hue complemented her coloring, lending her face a softer, warmer tone than the starker white of the shawl she normally wore. And the craftsmanship was lovely: someone had spent considerable time on the knotwork of its fringe.
“It becomes you,” Emma said.
Miss Bates ran her fingertips over the folds of silk draped over her arm. “I do not believe I have ever worn anything so lovely.” She glanced up at Mr. Deal. “How much does it cost?”
Mr. Deal took in her outdated dress, her worn bonnet, and named a price Emma knew to be below what the shawl could have fetched from a more affluent buyer. Yet it was still beyond Miss Bates’s means.