She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in [Emma], in every pleasure, every scheme of hers.
Hoping for a more sympathetic audience — perhaps even a conspirator — in her plan for Miss Bates, Emma visited Randalls the following day. Just over a year ago, Emma’s dearest friend had married Mr. Weston, and Emma fancied that she herself had brought about the match between her former governess and the longtime widower. Where Mr. Knightley had responded to Emma’s plan with skepticism, surely Mrs. Weston would recognize the merit, the necessity, of the idea, and approve it. Mrs. Weston possessed good principles and sound judgment; if Emma’s intentions towards Miss Bates were indeed misguided, Mrs. Weston would advise her — though with a heart prejudiced by a near-mother’s affection for the girl, now woman, she had helped raise from age five.
Emma would listen to Mrs. Weston’s counsel, then act as she generally did: precisely as Emma wished.
She found Mrs. Weston walking out-of-doors along a path that circled the house. The day was overcast, and a brisk autumn breeze endeavored to dislodge colored leaves from Randalls’s trees. It did manage to catch the brim of Mrs. Weston’s bonnet, freeing tendrils of dark hair as she spied Emma and came to greet her. Rosy cheeks revealed that she had been walking for some time.
“You are taking your walk early today,” Emma said.
“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
“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,
“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.
