the peddler. As Frank examined the snuff boxes and quizzed Mr. Deal as to their relative merits, Emma approached the elder Mr. Churchill.
“We are glad you came to Highbury,” Emma said by way of opening. “Mr. Frank Churchill speaks so well of you whenever he visits that we have all been eager to make your acquaintance. I believe it means a great deal to him to be at once with both his father and the uncle who has been as a father to him these many years.”
Edgar Churchill looked not at her, but toward Frank, who was engrossed in conversation with Mr. Deal. “I thought I would never be a father,” he said.
His voice held wistfulness. Frank’s marriage had no doubt brought on memories of Edgar’s own, along with fresh grief for the late wife nobody missed but him. Emma wondered whether the senior Churchills’ childless state had been a source of pain to them over the years. She had always thought of them, particularly the haughty and selfish Agnes Churchill, as regretting the lack of a legal heir more than the lack of a child in all of its immature, demanding physicality. Of the many impressions Emma had formed of the Churchills, that of nurturing parents had not been among them. But now, as Edgar gazed at Frank and the peddler, she saw that at least one of the Churchills knew what it meant to experience regret.
“You have a fine son, regardless of how he came to you.”
Her remark had been intended to soothe, but instead he turned to her with a startled look. “What prompts you to say such a thing?”
Emma rued her loose tongue. She had insulted him, spoken too freely, too familiarly, about a delicate matter. “I beg your pardon. I meant only that Frank—”
“Frank is not my son; he is Mr. Weston’s son.” He looked past her shoulder. “Though he is my heir, I have never forgotten that.”
Emma turned around. Mr. Weston had approached unheard, and looked as if he wished the conversation between her and Mr. Churchill had also gone unheard, to his ears. Mr. Weston was a man of such buoyant temperament that he deplored awkwardness and conflict, and was happiest when all around him were existing in perfect harmony.
Glancing from Emma to Mr. Churchill, he cleared his throat. “You have been most generous toward Frank, both you and Mrs. Churchill, and for your attentions to him all these years I am more thankful than I can ever express.”
At the mention of his late wife, Edgar Churchill stiffened. Clearly, the gentleman still mourned deeply, in more than merely his attire. “Deprived of the opportunity to raise my own son, it was a privilege to raise yours.”
His statement was oddly delivered, and made still more so by his bow and abrupt departure. He quit not only their conversation, but also the street itself, disengaging Frank from Mr. Deal to hasten him along to the Bates house. Frank handed payment to Mr. Deal and hurried off with his uncle.
“I am afraid that I offended Mr. Churchill,” she said to Mr. Weston. “Though I am not quite certain how. I referred to Frank as his adopted son, but if anyone were to feel that appellation too keenly, I should think it would have been you.”
“I doubt his displeasure arises from any words you uttered. He has not been quite himself since his arrival here. I believe Frank’s marriage has put him in mind of his own son.”
Emma’s mind raced to comprehend him. “You cannot mean that Edgar Churchill has a
“No, no — nothing like that. Mrs. Churchill ruled him so completely that he would not have dared take a mistress.”
“Then whatever do you mean?”
Mr. Weston glanced around. Having assured himself that they would not be overheard, he nevertheless lowered his voice. “They had a child, a boy, early in their marriage, years before I met Frank’s mother. She — Cecilia, my late wife — was a very young girl at the time, and was not fully aware of all that occurred. But while she was carrying Frank, she told me that her brother’s wife had delivered a stillborn son. From the low talk of servants who assumed a child would neither attend nor comprehend their gossip, she formed the impression that it had been a difficult birth. Whatever occurred, Mrs. Churchill never carried another child. Cecilia knew no other details, as the episode was never spoken of at Enscombe, but her dim memory of it caused her anxiety until our Frank was safely delivered.”
“Do you suppose that is why they offered to raise Frank after your wife died? To replace their lost son?”
Mr. Weston, ever good-humored, chuckled. “No. They simply did not think me capable of properly raising a Churchill. And in that respect they were correct, for I would have raised a Weston.” His expression grew more sober. “Too, by then they had aged to the point of relinquishing hope of ever having a child of their own. With no closer relation than Frank to whom to leave their estate, they wanted to control the upbringing of their heir. As Frank was growing up, I sometimes wondered whether I had made the proper choice in allowing them to do so, but I think he turned out a fine young man, whether despite or because of their influence.”
Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was feared by nobody; an easy, guidable man, to be persuaded into anything by his nephew.
The evening of the Donwell dinner party began promisingly enough. The Westons, Churchills, and Bateses all arrived on schedule to join the Knightleys in receiving their many guests, and Miss Bates looked as handsome as Emma had ever seen her. The seamstress and her assistants had produced just the dress Emma had envisioned, and it became Miss Bates like nothing else she had ever owned. She had, in fact, been so moved by the gift when Emma presented it for a final fitting that she was silent for a full minute as she blinked back tears, before erupting in thankfulness. The shawl complemented the dress perfectly, just as Emma had known it would.
Miss Bates’s hair, arranged by Emma’s own lady’s maid in a simple yet elegant style beneath a bandeau, framed her face becomingly. To Emma’s surprise, she wore the very combs Emma had admired among Mr. Deal’s wares. She wondered, however, that Miss Bates had indulged in purchasing them at the sacrifice of more pressing wants.
She told Miss Bates that she looked lovely, and meant it. “I was tempted by those combs myself when I saw them among the peddler’s goods, but I am glad you bought them, for they look so nice in your hair.”
“Oh, I did not buy them! I had been telling Mr. Deal all about Jane’s good fortune in marrying Frank, and how Frank had lately had some of his late aunt’s jewels reset in a pair of hair ornaments for Jane, when he produced these combs. They were so pretty, and such a story Mr. Deal told! — but he would not name a price. He insisted on giving them to me — positively insisted — said he hoped they would bring
Emma smiled. If only Miss Bates knew what fortune this night might bring.
Emma had identified three gentlemen on tonight’s guest list as particularly promising candidates for Miss Bates’s hand: the Reverend Mr. Wynnken, Mr. Timothy Nodd, and Major Oliver Barnes-Lincoln. All were unmarried gentlemen between the ages of two score and three. Each had a respectable profession — the church, the law, the army — that would enable him to provide Miss Bates a comfortable establishment suitable for a gentlewoman. These were also professions that would enable the groom to spend time out of the house — away from Miss Bates’s chatter — as needed.
The guests began to arrive. Miss Bates greeted local families with the ease of familiarity, and persons less well known to her with delight.
“Mr. and Mrs. Perry! How good of you to come. Jane looks radiant, does she not? It must please you, Mr.
