no one. Everybody knew Miss Bates; everybody would agree that she was a kind, good-natured woman. However, everybody in the village had also spent decades enduring her tedious chatter. “I believe Miss Bates’s chances are better with someone who has not known her all her life. I am sure an eligible candidate will present himself.” They had reached the village. Emma glanced down the lane and released a sigh. “Somewhere.”
They headed straight for the Bates house. As it came into view, two people were just entering it: Jane Churchill and Thomas Dixon.
The single Thomas Dixon.
Emma’s gaze followed him through the door, but her mind was already upstairs with Miss Bates. Thomas Dixon might not possess a large fortune, but he had enough money to pay his tailor bills. And he had been amiable last night, which was more than she could say about Mr. Nodd, the major, or Mr. Wynnken.
Thomas Dixon possessed wit and taste, pleasant looks, cultivated manners, and an extraordinary wardrobe. Why had she not considered him before?
“I planned the match from that hour.”
Elizabeth followed Mrs. Knightley up the narrow staircase. They were admitted to a small apartment, wherein a middle-aged woman was receiving the two visitors who had just arrived.
“… have been thinking about you all morning, Jane. Poor Frank! What a dreadful turn of events. He must be beside himself. So good of you to accompany Jane here, Mr. Dixon. And look! Now here is Mrs. Knightley and…”— she bestowed upon Elizabeth an uncertain but welcoming smile—“and…”
“This is Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Knightley said. “Her husband is a friend of Mr. Knightley, and they are visiting from Derbyshire. Mrs. Darcy, I present Miss Bates—” Their hostess’s smile brightened as Elizabeth acknowledged the introduction with a nod. Mrs. Knightley gestured toward an elderly woman knitting beside the fire. “—her mother, Mrs. Bates, and her niece, the former Jane Fairfax, now Mrs. Frank Churchill. Finally, Mr. Thomas Dixon.”
Elizabeth recognized the Bates ladies as two of the guests who had been departing upon her own arrival at Donwell. Jane Churchill was a comely young woman of perhaps two-and-twenty, with dark hair and grey eyes; not a classic beauty, but striking nonetheless. Mr. Dixon was considerably older, his temples touched with grey, yet still quite handsome. He was dressed impeccably in a cut-away green frock coat over a striped waistcoat, cream nankeen breeches, and highly polished Hessian boots. A monocle hung from a chain round his neck.
“Friends of Mr. Knightley? Well, you are certainly welcome here!” Miss Bates exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Mother? This is Mrs. Darcy.” She raised her voice. “Darcy. Oh! Do sit down, Mrs. Darcy — yes, right there. Mrs. Knightley, take my seat. No, no — it is no trouble at all. We have a spare chair in the bedroom. Patty, bring in the spare chair for me. There, now — we shall all be quite comfortable.”
Despite the effusive welcome, Elizabeth feared her presence as a stranger was an intrusion on the family so soon following Edgar Churchill’s death. “Allow me to wish you joy upon your marriage,” she said to Mrs. Churchill, who was seated beside Mr. Dixon on a worn sofa. “I believe I met your husband earlier today. I was sorry to hear about the loss of his uncle.”
“It is all most distressing,” said Miss Bates. “To be so happy at the start of a day, and end it so sadly. I am sure I never imagined Edgar Churchill would take ill — he seemed in perfect health when I saw him the day before. And Jane was just saying that he appeared fine at breakfast yesterday — were you not just saying that, Jane?”
“He was quieter than usual, but otherwise seemed well.” She turned to Mr. Dixon. “You took a walk with him in the afternoon. Had you any suspicion?”
“None. I—” He shrugged. “Mr. Churchill was as robust a walking companion as ever I had. A fine gentleman all around, gone far too soon.”
“Indeed. I am still not over the shock of it.” Tears formed in Jane Churchill’s eyes. “I am grateful he died among friends.”
Mr. Dixon patted Mrs. Churchill’s hand. The gesture struck Elizabeth as rather familiar, and she wondered what level of intimacy existed between the families.
Mrs. Knightley appeared to be studying him, as well. “Mr. Dixon, it is so good of you to stay on, along with your cousins, to console Mrs. Churchill and her husband.”
“I would wish to be nowhere else, even were I not at my cousin’s disposal.”
“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Dixon at present?”
“We left them at Randalls.”
Miss Bates turned to Elizabeth. “Jane said she longed for the company of her aunt and grandmama this afternoon. Frank being already out, Mr. Dixon kindly attended her.”
“How could I neglect an opportunity to spend more time in your charming company, ma’am? When Jane revealed her destination, I insisted on escorting her.”
The compliment delighted Miss Bates. “You are always welcome to visit our humble parlor, Mr. Dixon.”
“Humble? Not at all. It is… unpretentious. Why, I believe it wants only new wallpaper to complete it — lend it final polish, one might say.”
“New paper?” Miss Bates looked round, and Elizabeth could not help raising her own gaze to the walls and corners. It would take more than new paper to awaken the room from its tired state, but covering the present faded pattern would indeed improve it. “Oh, I see. Yes! There are a few worn patches, are there not? And it begins to peel up there, along the molding. Perhaps we ought to consider it.”
“Ought? You must. And I know the very pattern: a paisley stripe. I have it in my own bedchamber. It will give this happy little room just the subtle touch of elegance for which it cries.”
“Do you truly think so?”
“Oh, indeed! My friend Ridley, who just purchased a townhouse in Mayfair, utterly transformed his drawing room simply by changing the wallpaper — left all the furnishings just as they were. You need not alter another thing. Though if you were of a mind, new coverings might refresh the chairs.”
The chairs were indeed in want of refreshment — at a minimum. The bottom of Elizabeth’s own seat was so worn that she hoped it would hold her, and the sofa arms were as threadbare as the Bates ladies’ attire. Indeed, the only object in the cramped room that appeared possessed of fewer years than old Mrs. Bates was a pianoforte wedged into a corner.
Although Mr. Dixon’s assessment and proposed solutions were valid, Elizabeth doubted that the household could afford the changes he advocated. Surely, however, he would not have suggested them did he not believe the family had means — to do so would demonstrate a profound lack of feeling. Perhaps his recommendations had been meant as a hint for Miss Bates’s niece, now that Jane had married well and Edgar Churchill’s death had left her still more secure.
Elizabeth studied the new Mrs. Frank Churchill. Her expression was inscrutable. She was possessed of such strong self-command that Elizabeth could not upon this initial meeting penetrate it.
Mrs. Knightley, however, seemed undisturbed by the course of the conversation, and in fact smiled with approval. “Mr. Dixon, that is a splendid suggestion,” she said. “Perhaps you might counsel Miss Bates on suitable fabric.”
“I should be honored. Why, I know the very shop in London to help us. Extraordinary selection! My dear Miss Bates, if you will permit me, I would be delighted to undertake the commission on your behalf. There is nothing so satisfying as finding just the proper materials for fitting out a room — except, perhaps, the planning of a new waistcoat. Yes, you must allow me to assist you. I shall set off at first light tomorrow.”
Mr. Dixon appeared quite pleased with himself, and Emma even more so, at this proposal. Miss Bates, however, became flustered.
“Oh! Your offer is so kind, Mr. Dixon — so very kind. Is it not, Mother? Imagine that! Fabric all the way from London adorning our plain chairs here in Highbury. But it is too good — you are too good — the present chairs will
