“As you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have.”
Emma was well pleased with the campaign under way for refurbishing Miss Bates’s sitting room. Not only was the space in dire want of attention, but it was her hope that the project might prove the means by which an attachment between Miss Bates and Thomas Dixon formed. That Mr. Dixon had taken such particular notice of Miss Bates’s circumstances, and rather than responding with disdain or aversion had not only immediately initiated action to improve them, but also wished to be so directly involved in the affair himself, boded well. If romantic inclinations did not already kindle his interest, surely with proper management he would, by the time the last drapery was hung, desire an even more dramatic transformation: installing Miss Bates as Mrs. Dixon in his own abode. He would, that is, if Emma had her way about it.
Indeed, upon conceiving the notion, Emma had extended their call longer than intended to subtly advance the match. She conceded to herself that it was, on its surface, not the most likely of alliances, but more improbable attachments had been known to occur.
She and Mrs. Darcy left the small apartment only when Mr. Dixon himself departed to engage one of the Crown’s horses for the morrow so that he might complete posthaste his promised errands in London. “It must bring you pleasure to know how much happiness your endeavors will create for such a deserving lady,” Emma said to him as they reached the base of the stairs.
He held the door open for them. “Yes. Mrs. Churchill certainly deserves a return to happiness after the events of last night. At least she will be able to settle in Yorkshire confident that her aunt and grandmother are comfortable here.”
Mr. Dixon had mistaken Emma’s meaning. Why ever would he think she referred to Jane? “I was speaking of Miss Bates.”
“Oh, yes! Her happiness goes without saying. Who could fail to find joy in new wallpaper?”
Though she had hoped for a few additional minutes’ conversation with him to advance her plan, Mr. Dixon split off as soon as they entered the street. She could only fancy that his passion for Miss Bates was already too great for words.
Emma and Mrs. Darcy proceeded toward Donwell Lane. Near the corner stood Mr. Deal’s cart, where the peddler was showing Mr. Wallis a pair of pie tins. Emma wondered that the person who had operated the village bakery for some five-and-twenty years could be in want of more pie tins, but Mr. Wallis was easily persuadable these days. The unfortunate man had not been the same since he lost his wife last summer. For that matter, neither had his pies.
Just as they arrived at the cart, Miss Bates’s voice reached her ears. “Mrs. Knightley! Mrs. Knightley — oh, do stop!”
Emma and Mrs. Darcy both turned round. Miss Bates hurried to them, quite out of breath. Emma’s basket hung from one hand. In her rush to quit the apartment at the same time as Mr. Dixon, Emma had entirely forgotten it.
“Dear Miss Bates!” Emma took the basket from her hand. “Thank you — how good of you to bring it to me.”
“Well, it was so kind of you to bring us the apple butter. There is nothing we like more than apples this time of year — apple butter, apple cider, apple dumplings…”
“And baked apples, I trust,” said Mr. Wallis. He had a gentle, quiet manner well suited to a man who had spent every morning of his life working in the predawn stillness setting dough to rise. “I planned to bring yours over as soon as I finished with Mr. Deal.” He offered Miss Bates a smile, the first Emma had seen from him since his wife’s passing.
“Baked apples are our favorite! Oh, I am delighted that they are ready! Jane is in our sitting room at this very moment, and you know how she loves baked apples. Nothing so wholesome — why, even Mr. Woodhouse approves them. Yes, do send your boy over with the apples as soon as you can.”
“I shall do better and bring them myself.”
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
