The spinster leaned in, as if confiding a secret. “I’ve never worn muffs, since I always forget about them or misplace them. But now I don’t wish to disappoint Mr. Woodhouse.”
“It’s splendid, and you should absolutely wear it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Mrs. Knightley, I think I should go with you,” Miss Bates said with uncommon determination. “Mrs. Ford might feel atriflenervous regarding this subject. Why, I lay awake half the night just thinking about it! Since she and I are such particular friends, she might feel more comfortable answering questions if I’m there.”
Emma had to admit that Miss Bates had been surprisingly helpful these last few weeks. She possessed such a kind presence and everyone loved her. Certainly, no one could feel threatened by her.
“Very well, but we must be careful and discrete. This is a very delicate situation.”
When Miss Bates clasped her hands, the muff banged against her torso. “How exciting! I feel as if I’m living in the pages of a thrilling novel.”
“Not a very good one,” Emma dryly commented.
“Oh dear, I suppose that’s true. I promise I will be as quiet as the proverbial church mouse while you interrogate Mrs. Ford. And no one will be able to compel me to give upanyinformation we might learn, no matter how great the pressure.”
Emma eyed the woman’s earnest expression, rather wondering if Miss Bates had a secret predilection for sensational novels.
Highbury was starting to bustle. It promised to be a fine day with clear skies and a refreshing nip to the air. They exchanged hellos with a few of the townsfolk and nodded to Mr. Gilbert as he doffed his hat and rode by on his mare.
A glance into the wide bay window at Ford’s, gaily festooned with a display of winter hats, assured Emma that no other customers were present. Those bonnets, however, gave her pause. The high feathers and trim they sported were rather too extravagant for a milliner in a place like Highbury. For the first time, she wondered how Mrs. Ford managed to so often stock her establishment with merchandise of higher quality than one would normally see in a village this size, and at reasonable prices at that.
Only one way to find out.
The little bell over the door jingled them in. Mrs. Ford was behind a long counter. Her attention was focused on a ledger, but she quickly glanced up and hurried over to greet them.
“Mrs. Knightley, Miss Bates, good morning. What brings you out so early?”
Highbury’s milliner was a woman of both sensible demeanor and dress. Her gowns were well tailored but never showy, as if she preferred the focus to remain on her merchandise rather than herself. A widow of some years, her entire life revolved around the shop and her loyalty to her customers. Ford’s was an institution in their village, and its proprietor had always been considered above reproach.
Until now.
“Miss Bates and I wished to speak to you before you got busy,” Emma said.
“Oh? How can I be of assistance?”
“I have a question—just a little one, really. It’s about something Mr. Clarke mentioned at the inquest.”
Mrs. Ford sucked in a startled breath.
Emma hesitated, but then decided there was nothing for it. “As you might recall, he raised concerns about smugglers having some influence in Highbury. Naturally, one doesn’t wish to believe anyone in our village would be involved in such things. I was wondering, perhaps, if you could shed some light on Mr. Clarke’s observations.”
“I don’t see how I possibly could,” Mrs. Ford stiffly replied. “I know nothing about how smugglers operate, here or anywhere else.”
“Of course not,” Emma said in a soothing tone. “And why would you? But we were just wondering—”
“If you’ve ever been in receipt of smuggled goods,” Miss Bates bluntly interjected.
Mrs. Ford turned as white as the cravats displayed in her shop.
So much for making the poor woman comfortable.
Miss Bates reached over and took the shopkeeper’s hand. “Dear Mrs. Ford, please don’t be angry with me. No one believes you could be in league with those horrible smugglers. I almost fainted dead on the spot when Mr. Clarke suggested it!”
The poor woman began to look ill. “Mr. Clarke thinks I’m smuggling contraband goods?”
Emma put up her hands. “He simply suggested that the occasional shipment of smuggled goodsmighthave found their way into some of the local shops. He has no intention of accusing anyone.”
“That we know of,” Miss Bates added with lamentable candor.
