"Basilweather, Wolfeton, Harris," Henry began to list those of his friends who might enjoy a few weeks hunting, "Morgan--"
"My dear," Cecilia interrupted, giving a slight shudder of distaste, "You cannot fill the house with bachelors. No, I was thinking of Lady Brynn and her three nieces, the Countess Hertford and her daughter, Lady Annabelle--she came out just this year and is quite the beauty. Perhaps Lord and Lady Jersey; they have a daughter..."
Henry halted mid-step and cast his mother a quelling glare; well, as quelling as he could muster, for she was after all his mother.
"Mama," he said, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to remind her that he was a grown man, and not a boy she could boss about, "You spent all season wife-hunting in town on my behalf; I will not tolerate it in my country residence. A man needs some peace."
"A man also needs an heir," Cecilia countered, thoroughly unimpressed by his show of defiance.
"I have Thomas."
"Your brother is away with the army," the duchess sniffed, "And he is not the Duke of Northcott, you are. You require an heir, Henry, lest you wish to end up like Lord Crabb."
"Does Lord Crabb not have an heir?" Henry raised an eyebrow in question. He knew the viscount was a bachelor but had assumed that he had a brother or a nephew who would inherit.
"He does," the duchess admitted, "But no one has set eyes on him. Lord Crabb's brothers are all dead, but before they died, they saw fit to breed daughters, who in turn bred more daughters. Crabb's heir is some distant second cousin who has never once set foot in Plumpton--it causes all sorts of anxieties amongst his tenants and staff. Imagine how they must suffer, wondering who will take hold of the estate when Lord Crabb passes."
"It would be difficult for this cousin to be any worse than the current viscount," Henry snorted, though he did feel a mild jolt of panic on behalf of Miss Mifford.
What would become of her, and her family, if the next Lord Crabb was to bestow the living at Plumpton upon someone else?
"While that might be true," Cecilia agreed, "You owe your own tenants more certainty. You must marry soon, Henry, and secure an heir."
"Perhaps I shall marry sooner than you think, mother," Henry replied, his mind filled with Miss Mifford, though deep down he knew she was not really a suitable candidate to be his duchess.
"You won't unless you allow me to invite some eligible ladies down," Cecilia sighed, "For you won't find a bride in Plumpton--there's no society to be had here. Your secretary tells me the only invitation you have received so far is from the Parish Ladies' Society, who wish to hold a dance in your honour. I hardly think you'll find a wife hiding amongst the unwashed masses in a country assembly room--imagine!"
"Yes, imagine," Henry replied, though really he was doing just that.
Chapter Three
As well as the cleaning and upkeep of both of the town's churches, Plumpton's Parish Ladies' Society had two other very important functions. The first was the organising of the annual summer fête, which took place on the village green, and required very little actual organising.
The second was the management of the Ladies' Assemblies, which ran once a month from September until March in the assembly room above The Ring'O'Bells Inn. Previously, given that there was very little society in Plumpton, the organising of the assemblies had been quite an easy affair, but with an invitation now extended to the duke, its members had become most particular--though some more than others.
"No clerks to be admitted," Mrs Canards called, the day the assembly was due to take place, as she read aloud from a list of new rules she had concocted, "No shopkeepers, excepting Mr Allen, the seats at the top of the room are to be reserved for ladies of precedence of the rank of a Peer or Peeress of Great-Britain or Ireland, the gentlemen are not to wear coloured scarves--"
"Bah," Mary interrupted disagreeably, "We shall have no one in attendance with all these rules, Mrs Canards."
"His Grace will be in attendance," Mrs Canards answered coolly, as, beside her, Mrs Wickling nodded in agreement.
"Well, he shall find himself in an empty room," Mary laughed, "No men in coloured scarves--do you think us in London, where every gentleman has a sparkling white cravat to hand?"
"Fine," Mrs Canards frowned, "I shall strike that from the list."
"And you can't suddenly refuse all the shopkeepers attendance," Jane Mifford added her voice to Mary's argument, "For they pay their subscription just like everyone else and they will attend every ball this winter, whilst His Grace might disappear again and then where would we be?"
"Merchants and their families will lower the tone," Mrs Canards huffed, casting a glare at the assembled ladies, who were seated in a circle.
"The tone is already lowered," Mrs Mifford gave a giggle, "You might not be able to imagine it Mrs Canards, but having moved amongst the ton, I know the places His Grace frequents; Carton House, Almack's, the finest homes in England. Our tiny gathering will little impress him, even if we do bar all the clerks and shopkeepers. In fact, I cannot think why he accepted the invitation in the first place."
Mary bit back a groan; while she knew her mother only wished to come to her defence, she had done so in the only way that she knew how--by reminding everyone that she was better than them. Well, that she thought she was better than them.
Mrs Canards visibly bristled at Mrs Mifford's words and Mary scrambled to think of something to say which might remedy matters.
"His Grace would not have accepted our invitation if he thought our assembly beneath him," Mary assured the room, "I am certain that he is very much looking forward to attending."
Mary nervously tucked a strand of hair which had escaped back under her mob-cap. The dratted thing was too large, but given that mob-caps were de rigueur for spinsters, she had felt obliged to wear one.
"And while some of your rules might not work," Mary continued, striving for harmony, "I do agree with the others; no boots in the room, sixpence a ticket for those without a subscription, married ladies and ladies of precedence to have first call before eight o'clock."
"Yes, those are good ideas," Miss Sarah Hughes agreed quickly, recognising Mary's mission to mollify Mrs Canards, "How clever."
"I might never have been to town," Mrs Canards sniffed, "But I have been around a long time, and I know that if one wishes to keep the riff-raff away, one must set rules."
Mrs Wickling nodded furiously in agreement; a quiet woman of sixty years, she seemed to exist only to validate Mrs Canards' pronouncements and held no opinions of her own.
"Well, if that's settled," Mrs Mifford interrupted, "Perhaps we might call the meeting to an end?"
Her mother, Mary knew, wished to hurry home so that they all might begin preparing for the evening's event. As it was not yet noon and Mary had no wish to start dressing seven hours early, she lingered in the parish hall as the others gathered their things and left.
"I shall help Mary with the tidying up," Jane called to their mother, who was ushering Emily and Eudora out the door.
"Well, don't dally," Mrs Mifford replied, "There is work to be done if we are to tame that hair of yours into something presentable."
"Charming," Jane snorted, as the door slammed shut behind their Mama.
"Well, you are her only hope, now that I am officially on the shelf," Mary replied, as she began to push the chairs back into place, "And you often say yourself that your hair has a mind of its own."
Jane was Mary's opposite. Where Mary was fair, Jane was dark. Where Mary was neat, Jane was always in a state of disarray. Even now, the hem of her dress was stained with mud, having taken an early morning ramble through the fields, whilst her chestnut curls were worn down, tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
"You are not on the shelf," Jane retorted, ignoring the mention of her hair, "And even if you were, is it not better to be left on the shelf, rather than placed in the wrong cupboard?"
"That it is," Mary agreed, though in her heart she mourned a little. Despite having emb
raced spinsterhood entirely--mob-caps, reading, sniffing in disapproval at her younger sisters' antics--she still rather regretted that a husband and home were now lost to her.
The girls worked in silence for a few minutes more, until the room was returned to the state that they had found it in. Mary sighed as she tugged on her mob-cap, which had slipped as they worked. It was rather unfortunate that the uniform of a spinster was required to be so dull and cumbersome, she thought.
"Why on earth are you insisting on wearing that horrid thing?" Jane queried, as the two sisters left the hall, locking the door behind them.
"It is appropriate for a woman of my station," Mary sniffed.
"And what station is that?" Jane asked as the two girls set off toward home, "Grandmother?"
"Spinster," Mary hissed, not wishing to be overheard, "I don't know if you've realised Jane, but after my failure in London, my chances of finding a husband are now gone. I was upset, at first, but I have now decided that I will dedicate myself to making certain that a similar fate does not befall you, or any of my sisters."
"Have you gone mad?" Jane queried, her brown eyes blinking in confusion, "You might be two and twenty, but you are still the prettiest girl in Plumpton. Any man would be glad to have you as their wife."
"Alas, my ship has sailed," Mary took on a martyred tone, "But you can still set sail on the sea of life Jane, and I will help you on your journey."
For a moment, Jane was silent. Mary had thought that her sister was trying to compose an adequate speech of thanks for her sacrifice, but instead, she gave a growl of irritation.
"You take everything to the extreme," Jane huffed, as they crossed across the village green, "When an idea pops into your head, you are blind to anything else."
"I am not."
"Do you not recall when you read in the Belle Assemblée that a smidgen of goose-fat around the eyes at night might prevent wrinkles and decided it would work better if you slathered yourself from top to toe in the stuff?"
Mary flushed at the memory; no matter how much she had bathed, the neighbours' dogs had still followed her everywhere for a week.
"Or when Colin Frampton declared his preference for foreign ladies, and you adopted a French accent and insisted we address you as Mathilde?"
"Really, Jane," Mary huffed, "I was thirteen at the time, and not very clever--as evidenced by my thinking Colin Frampton was a boy worth impressing."
That was the worst thing about sisters, Mary thought ruefully, they knew all your past mistakes and were always more than happy to remind you of them, dare you forget.
They had just turned off at Bottom Lane to take a short cut back to the house, and Mary was about to argue that Jane was too young to understand--the eldest sister's ultimate weapon in an argument--when the sound of raised voices from behind a garden wall caused her to pause.
Two men were having a furious argument in the rear kitchen gardens of The King's Head Coaching Inn. Because of the high wall, it was impossible to see who it was, but as one of the men had a French accent, it was easy to guess his identity. The foreign population of Plumpton was numbered at one; Guillaume Canet, the coaching inn's renowned chef.
"I will not stand for eet anymore," he roared, as Mary and Jane came to a halt to listen, "Do you 'ear me?"
Whoever he was talking to replied in such a low voice that it was impossible for Mary to even guess who it was--the only thing that was obvious, from the deep pitch, was that he was a male. Whatever it was that the man had said in reply sent Monsieur Canet into a rage.
"I will not stand by and be judged by a man from a country that thinks roasting something beige for two hours is haute cuisine," he howled in rage, "You, sir, will do well to stay away from me from now on, comprenez-vous? Or I will stuff you like a chicken!"
"Gracious," Jane whispered, turning to Mary with round eyes.
"I know," she replied, feeling outraged. "I think Monsieur Canet was rather out of order; there's nothing nicer in the world than roast parsnips."
"Who on earth do you think he was arguing with?" Jane asked, ignoring Mary's patriotic defence of English vegetables.
"Heaven knows," Mary shrugged, as she tried to think just who might have vexed the chef so terribly and why.
While it was rather shocking to have overheard a heated argument in staid and boring Plumpton, when the two girls arrived back at Primrose Cottage, all thoughts of the altercation left their heads.
Pandemonium greeted them as they walked through the door; Mrs Mifford was racing down the stairs with an armful of petticoats, calling out for Nora, the maid-of-all-work. Emily was trying to coax Billy, the cat, down from the top of the bookcase, where he was playing with a pair of stockings. Eudora, ever prepared, was practising her dance-steps, already fully dressed in a gown which was miles too big for her and a feathered turban which she had inherited from a long-dead great-aunt.
"Is that my dress?" Mrs Mifford asked, on her way to the kitchens.
"I thought it becoming on me," Eudora replied, as she adjusted the feathered monstrosity upon her head.
As the youngest of the Mifford girls, Eudora was always fighting to be seen as equal to her older sisters. This often led to her presenting herself in costumes more suited to a dowager dame than a young woman of eighteen, and, even more often, dressed in clothes which were not hers.
"And are they my stockings?" Mary added, spotting some familiar embroidered clocks as Eudora gave a twirl.
"No," Eudora was emphatic in her denial of the truth.
"And that's my reticule you're clutching," Jane added, though she sounded more amused than annoyed.
"I am borrowing it for the evening," Eudora replied evenly, "Honestly, it is not becoming of you both to be so possessed by your possessions."
"It is not becoming of a young lady to thief from her sisters," Mary retorted, as she noted with alarm that the cat on the bookcase was shredding her second-best pair of stockings.
"You have no idea how I suffer," Eudora sighed dramatically, "Always dressed in hand-me-downs, never with a gown or a ribbon to call my own."
"You can have all my ribbons if you wish," Emily offered, but her words were met with a scowl from Eudora, who had been enjoying throwing a pity party for herself.
"I shall never have anything of my own," Eudora continued, ignoring Emily's charitable gesture. "Not even a house or a husband, for you three will marry the most eligible men in Plumpton, and when it comes to my turn, only the dregs shall be left. Perhaps I should just resign myself to my fate and set up house with the butcher's boy at once."
"Keep the stockings," Mary interjected, as she recalled, with a pang of guilt, her vow to see her sisters married well, "Though on the condition that you wear them with the blue gown I had made in London. I cannot stand by and allow you to leave the house looking like an elderly dowager."
Eudora frowned, clearly confused by her elder sister's display of generosity. The blue gown was the height of fashion; it had short full sleeves, a modestly low neckline trimmed in lace, and a skirt which fell in generous falls, each one ornamented by a rouleau of satin and lace. It was by far the prettiest dress that any of the Mifford sisters had ever owned, and it was unthinkable to Eudora that Mary would offer it so freely.
"Why do you wish me to wear it?" Eudora asked, suspiciously.
"Because you are my sister and I love you, and I wish you to shine as brightly as the stars," Mary replied, enjoying the warm feeling that giving inspired within.
"No, really," Eudora furrowed her brow, "Why?"
"Because I love you," Mary reiterated, this time through gritted teeth, "And as I have now been set most decidedly upon the shelf, I have no need to wear such a beautiful gown. It is better if one of you wears it."
"On the shelf?"
Mrs Mifford had returned, with a sulky Nora in tow, and was glaring at her eldest daughter. Mary had not yet told her Mama of her decision to embrace a life of spinsterhood and, judging by Mrs Mifford's furious frown, it
was not an idea that she would entertain.
"Who says you are on the shelf?" Mrs Mifford asked as she handed her armful of petticoats to Jane.
"Society says," Mary placed her hands on her hips, prepared for a fight, "I don't know if you realise, Mama, but I am two and twenty--practically barren!--with very little fortune to recommend me. It is time we gave up on the belief that any man might want me and focus our attention on seeing the others suitably matched."
"I don't wish to be suitably matched to anyone," Emily offered, but she was roundly ignored.
"I have never heard such utter dross in all my years," Mrs Mifford continued, "I was two and twenty when I married your father and look how happy we are."
"Did someone mention me?" Mr Mifford called mildly from the door.
"Hush, Albert," Mrs Mifford replied crossly, "Go away, you're not needed."
"You shall be the belle of tonight's assembly, Mary," Mrs Mifford continued, as her husband took himself away to the library, "You have just had a season in town; there's not many in Plumpton who can claim the same, apart from me, of course. I won't hear any more talk of you giving up on marriage. You will attend tonight's dance, and you will enjoy yourself; do you hear me?"
"I hear you," Mary replied.
She gave her mother a mutinous glare, though really, it was all for show. How splendid it would be to wear a lovely dress and dance gaily, she thought; she could play the part of the spinster tomorrow...
When the Mifford family arrived at The Ring'O'Bells later that evening, they found Mrs Canards seated at a table just inside the door, checking the vouchers. As this task was usually assigned to lesser beings than Mrs Canards, Mary suspected that the cantankerous old woman was attempting to veto entry to those she considered less than desirable--namely the entire population of Plumpton.
Mary was proved correct immediately, for as the family took their place in the queue, a kerfuffle broke out at Mrs Canards' table.
"What do you mean my subscription's not valid?" Daniel Fairweather roared, as his wife shrank with embarrassment beside him.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 3