"Odious man," Mary mumbled under her breath, though she kept a smile affixed to her face whilst she was still in view.
As Mary continued along her path, she found herself getting even more riled up by Mr Parsims. What a horrible man! While her own father's habits, words, and deeds were often completely at odds with what one would expect of a vicar, he was never cruel. At least not intentionally...and if intentionally, it was usually with good reason. But Mr Parsims seemed to take pure delight in being mean-spirited.
By the time Mary reached Mrs Canards' yellow-stone cottage, she found that all of her earlier goodwill had left her--stolen by the sharp-tongued rector.
"What are you doing here?" Mrs Canards huffed, as she opened the door to Mary's knock.
The elderly lady was holding half an onion to her ear, and though she did look wretched, her crotchety greeting leeched away any sympathy Mary might have felt for her plight.
"I made you a nostrum," Mary replied, thrusting the jar at Mrs Canards, "For your ear."
"Do you think me unable to prepare my own nostrums?" came the ungrateful reply.
"I simply wished to do something nice for you," Mary sighed.
"Why?"
When someone was as awful as Mrs Canards, they were often unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of spontaneous acts of kindness, and as such viewed those acts with suspicion. Mary tried to remind herself that a good, true spinster might find some sort of profound meaning in Mrs Canards' irritable dismissal of her nostrum but decided that she was not so true and good after all.
"I don't know why," Mary replied through gritted teeth, "I simply wished to do something nice, and I am being punished for it. Just like Mr Parsims punished me for interrupting the duke when he was trying to bash in his window."
Mary rather expected Mrs Canards to scold her for her outburst, but the old woman did no such thing.
"Northcott is here?" she asked, her mind affixing on only the most important fact.
"Yes."
"Are you certain?" Mrs Canards pressed.
"Quite certain," Mary replied, wincing as she recalled how certainly the stone she had flung had hit His Grace's head.
"Well, this changes everything," Mrs Canards said, reaching out to snatch the jar of nostrum from Mary's hands, "I shall take this, dearie, and drink it at once; then I shall prepare myself for the afternoon meeting of the Ladies' Society."
"I don't think His Grace shall be in attendance," Mary was amused.
"No, but we have an assembly to organise," Mrs Canards huffed, "His Grace's presence is an honour to Plumpton, and as members of the Ladies' Society, we should ensure that he receives a true Plumpton welcome."
Mary recalled the duke's fine, tailored jacket, his gleaming Hessian boots, and his decidedly aristocratic mien; a country assembly above the local tavern would fall far below the standards a man such as Northcott was accustomed too.
Still, Mrs Canards had visibly perked up, and Mary herself felt a slight thrill at the idea of a dance. What harm would it be? Not only would it honour His Grace, but it would bring a little joy to the village, she thought, completely forgetting that spinsters were supposed to abhor gaiety.
"Run along home, now," Mrs Canards said, in a voice that one might think was affectionate, if one did not know her well, "I am sure your sisters will be interested in your news."
Her sisters!
In all the excitement with the duke and all the sourness with Mr Parsims, Mary had forgotten all about her three sisters. How excited they would be to learn of the duke's arrival. Not to mention her mama, who would be so overjoyed that she would probably require a medicinal wine to calm her nerves.
Mary winced as she imagined her mama plotting and scheming an attempt to marry one of her daughters off to the Duke of Northcott. Mrs Mifford had been born into the ton but had married down, as she was fond of reminding her family, and anyone else who would listen. In her mind, her daughters were as good a match for the duke as any society miss, though Mary highly doubted that Northcott would harbour similar beliefs.
No, the Duke of Northcott would not think any of the Mifford girls as suitable candidates for his bride. Though, Mary sniffed, as she recalled the haughty peer, that was no loss.
Chapter Two
Henry William Pryse Lockheart, Sixth Duke of Northcott, gave a sigh of displeasure as he awaited the arrival of Lord Crabb. As a duke, he abhorred waiting on anyone, but as Lord Crabb was an octogenarian, and as this was a social visit, there was very little that Henry could do but lump it.
He paced the floor of the grand drawing room of Plumpton Hall out of both boredom and necessity. The room was cold, as though rarely used, which Henry suspected was the case. There was little society in Plumpton, and he doubted that Lord Crabb had many callers who would warrant the opening of this grand room.
After a good fifteen minutes, the door to the drawing-room finally creaked open, and Lord Crabb shuffled inside, scowling terribly in Henry's direction.
"Northcott," he grumbled in greeting, "You might have written before calling."
"I did."
"Well, you might have written twice. A man of my age can't be expected to recall every ruddy letter he receives."
"I shall keep that in mind," Henry replied evenly, refusing to allow the curmudgeonly viscount to upset his equilibrium.
"Take a seat," Crabb said, waving to one of two high-backed chairs, which faced the--regrettably--empty fireplace, "And you can illuminate me on this water mill business you're faffing over."
Henry was far too polite to point out to Lord Crabb that he had mentioned the "water-mill business" in the missive he had sent advising of his visit, though he did feel a niggle of irritation. He was further irritated when it became apparent that Lord Crabb would not be offering any refreshments. True, he had not travelled far for his visit, but he was a duke, for heaven's sake. The old bugger could at least have offered tea.
"I wish to extend the mill," Henry began, referring to the flour mill which stood just outside the village, on a bend of the River Avon, "I want to add a second wheel to the village side of the mill, but to do so I will need to construct a leat."
"That's all well and good," Lord Crabb replied lazily, "But what does that have to do with me? You didn't need to rouse me from my bed to tell me this--unless, of course, you mean to involve me in some way."
"The construction of the leat would involve the use of your land--temporarily, I hasten to add--though I have no doubt that many of your tenants will make use of the expanded mill."
"Do you wish me to help finance this silly business?" Lord Crabb spluttered, aghast at the idea of parting with money.
"No," Henry was flat, "I just require your permission for the use of the land. Though I cannot think why you might refuse; the Corn Laws have driven the price of flour sky-high, our tenants are suffering, and it is our duty to help them."
"I will think about it."
Lord Crabb's response to Henry's impassioned plea sounded rather bored. Henry bristled with indignation; aristocrats like Lord Crabb, with their indifference to their tenants, were the reason why bread riots were taking place the length and breadth of the country. England might go the way of France if the landed gentry did not try to help their fellow man.
"I don't know why you need to think on it," Henry retorted, no longer able to hide his annoyance, "The fields I require the use of are used only for pasture; you can stick your beasts on my land for the duration if needs be. We have a moral duty to our tenants--"
"I won't be lectured on duty by a man who has been absent for these past five years."
It was often said that the truth stung and Crabb's words hit Henry like a slap to the face. He could feel himself flushing--as he often did when embarrassed--but refused to be browbeaten by the crabby viscount.
"Not that it is any of your business," Henry said, adopting his most ducal hauteur as he spoke, "But I left Northcott Manor and its lands in the care of my very able agent, Mr Silk
s. Had there been one word of complaint about his work, I would have returned at once, but there were none. I choose my staff very carefully, Lord Crabb."
Henry placed a heavy emphasis on the word "I", in order for the viscount to understand that Henry did not feel that Lord Crabb was as equally discerning about his own employees. No well-trained servant would have left a duke to freeze in a hall without even so much as a sniff of a cup of tea.
"Is that so?"
Lord Crabb looked so delighted that Henry momentarily wondered if he had walked himself into trouble. However, he could not think of any member of his vast retinue of staff who did not distinguish themselves admirably in their duties.
"Yes," Henry was bold enough to allow a note of certainty.
"That's not what I have heard," Lord Crabb cleared his throat, "Though, of course, it might all be rumours. You know what small towns are like; if you even so much as sneeze at the top of Church Street, the local gossips have you dead and buried before you reach the end of it."
The viscount smiled lightly at his own joke and did not appear to wish to press the matter further. Henry would have done well to follow suit, but curiosity got the better of him. Curiosity and a pressing urge to know which of his staff was not up to scratch. Henry was, as his mother often noted, wholly committed to fastidiousness. And this commitment came, she also often added, at the expense of fun, though Henry usually paid no heed to that part. He was a duke; there was little fun to be had when one had several estates, thousands of tenants, and an ever-expanding retinue of dependents to whom he must attend.
"May I ask who in my service, according to the town tabbies, is not performing their duties exactly?" Henry queried, with a frown.
"Oh, I wouldn't like to give credence to gossip, Northcott," Lord Crabb replied, innocently, "Though if you insist on knowing--"
"I do."
"Mr Parsims."
"The vicar?"
"I think you'll find he's a rector, Northcott," Lord Crabb grinned, thoroughly delighted to find Henry slipping, "And I've heard that he's most particular about that point, especially when it comes to his flock paying their tithes. Why, only yesterday, there was an awful kerfuffle in The Ring when Mr Parsims loudly inquired of Jack Thompson how he found the money to buy ale when he had not paid his dues to the church."
"Mr Parsims is within his right to collect what is owed to him," Henry responded, though he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The living at St Mary's was a generous one; as well as an above-average allowance from Henry, Mr Parsims was entitled to collect tithes from his parishioners--usually one-tenth of their harvest or increase in flock as payment in kind. As the parish was large and the lands in good condition, this amounted to a considerable sum; so considerable, that it was rather unseemly of the clergyman to chase people for their dues in a public tavern.
"Indeed, he is," Lord Crabb nodded in agreement, "But resentment does tend to brew between a shepherd and his flock when there are no allowances made for circumstance, and when having paid their dues, they are still charged surplice fees."
Henry winced; clergymen in towns and cities--having no farmers to demand tithes from--made their living by charging for pew rentals and fees for performing certain rites, like baptisms, marriages, and funerals. It was unheard of for a country rector to demand similar compensation.
"It is not unusual for a man to wish to increase his means," Henry replied, reluctant to openly condemn Parsims aloud, for it would be admitting that he had made a mistake to Lord Crabb, "Though I shall have a quiet word with him for the sake of harmony."
"That might be wise," Lord Crabb replied mildly, "For Mr Parsims' sake, as well as everyone else's. There was a terrible scene last spring, when, having refused to pay Mr Parsims what he felt he was owed, Stephen Browne woke one morning to find a dog let loose amongst his ewes, worrying them. He shot it, but of course, the damage had already been done."
"Stray dogs often roam and cause trouble with sheep," Henry replied carefully.
"Oh," Lord Crabb chuckled innocently, "Of course they do, and that is what Mr Mifford--my own clergyman--said when he was called to diffuse the situation between the two men, but a seed of doubt was sown nonetheless."
Mr Mifford?
To Henry's shame, he found that his attention had been drawn away from parish matters, to matters of the female variety. Mr Mifford could only be related to Miss Mifford; she of the sparkling blue eyes spun gold hair and frighteningly good aim.
Miss Mifford had struck Henry both metaphorically and actually, quite the feat, for Henry's head was notoriously difficult to turn.
"Ah," Henry cleared his throat, rather awkwardly he had to admit, "I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Mifford the day before yesterday; she was passing when I called on Mr Parsims. A lovely young woman, I'm sure you would agree."
"I'm sure I would if I knew which Miss Mifford you had met," Crabb gave a snort of laughter, "There's four of them."
Four sisters? Henry had one brother and had spent, from the age of six, most of his years surrounded by men. From Eton to Oxford, to White's club, his cup had runneth over with male company. He could not envision what a home bursting at the seams with females might be like...though he was rather curious.
"Miss Mifford is the eldest," Lord Crabb continued, "Then there is Miss Jane Mifford, followed by Miss Emily Mifford, and, finally, Miss Eudora Mifford is the youngest. When I bestowed the living of Plumpton Parish upon my niece's new husband, some twenty years ago, I never imagined that anyone could stuff so many children into one house, but somehow they did. Rather Papist, if you ask me--and not even a son at the end of it all."
"The Miss Mifford I encountered was fair-haired," Henry ventured, ignoring Lord Crabb's rather crude remark, "And has just recently returned from London. Mr Parsims mentioned that she had quite the successful visit."
"He did, did he?" Crab frowned, "Well, that would be Mary, the eldest of the four."
Mary; a sweeter sound had never been spoken.
Henry refrained from smiling at having secured the name of the young woman who had filled his mind for these past two days. He now had a given name to whisper in his late-night imaginings before he slept--which would make them far less formal, for hitherto he had been addressing his imagined Mary as Miss Mifford.
"Lovely young woman," Henry said curtly, as he rose to a stand, "She commends herself very well."
Lord Crabb muttered something in reply, which sounded very much like "Well, one of them has to", but he quickly spoke again before Henry had a chance to question him.
"Thank you for your call, Northcott," Lord Crabb said, creaking to a stand, "I would return the favour, but alas I do not travel far these days."
"There's no need to call," Henry was very quick to assure, "Send word when you are ready to discuss my plans further, and I shall call on you."
With all the distraction of Mr Parsims and Miss Mifford, Henry had forgotten that his original goal had been having Lord Crabb agree to the construction of the water mill. Anxiety gnawed at him as he made his way from the grand house to the courtyard, where a groom had his horse waiting for him. There was much work to be done in Plumpton, to assure that his tenants would continue to prosper as the world around them changed.
Henry's mind was filled with thoughts of industrialisation, the perils of agriculture, and the ever lingering threat of sedition and rebellion, but still--despite these morbidities--he somehow managed to take a detour on the way home, past the rectory beside the Church of St Anne. As he trotted past, he kept his gaze forward, but his eyes and ears alert for any sign of Miss Mifford.
From the kitchen gardens to the rear, Henry could hear the sound of singing and laughter, though, lamentably, that was all. He had longed, perhaps, for a quick glimpse of Miss Mifford, tending to roses in a white dress and flower trimmed bonnet.
The sound of her singing would have to suffice, Henry thought, ignoring that he was not certain if it was the eldest Miss Mifford he had heard. He store
d the memory away for later consumption and continued on his journey to Northcott Manor, humming under his breath.
Upon his arrival, he was greeted by a flurry of activity. Servants dashed here and there, fetching this and carrying that. Upon their faces, they each wore an expression of mild panic and did not seem to notice that their master had returned.
Henry frowned; there was only one person who might cause such turmoil amongst his usually calm staff. But, no, he assured himself, it was impossible--
"Henry!"
"Mother."
Henry's greeting lacked the excitement and warmth of that offered by Cecilia, Dowager Duchess of Northcott, but true to form, his mother failed to notice his lack of enthusiasm. Her Grace was an exceedingly confident woman, who would never even think to imagine that her presence was anything less than an assured blessing on those in its receipt.
"What a coincidence," the duchess continued, tripping down the grand staircase toward him, "I was halfway to Edinburgh when I felt the Cotswolds calling me and ordered the driver to turn around. I had absolutely no idea that you were here, dear."
After thirty years of study, Henry was somewhat fluent in his mother's language of half-truths. He did not doubt that she had been halfway to Edinburgh, for Henry had implied that was where he would go when last they had spoken. He highly doubted, however, that the Cotswolds had miraculously called for her, and assumed that she had gotten wind of his actual destination from a source along the road.
"You must throw a house party," Cecilia continued, linking her arm through that of her son and guiding him toward the drawing-room, "To celebrate your return to your seat."
"Perhaps I might," Henry replied, rather struck by the idea. A house party might last weeks, and his devious brain was deducing that he might ride past Miss Mifford's home countless times if he were to stay in residence at Northcott Manor a little longer than he had planned.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 2