"It's not valid for this assembly," Mrs Canards replied, her loud voice carrying, "I don't know if you heard, but we are expecting the duke this evening. I cannot be expected to permit just anyone to enter."
"I'm not just anyone," Mr Fairweather responded, refusing to be cowed, "I am a paid-up subscriber, and I'll not have you lording it over me as though you are my better."
"I am your better," Mrs Canards snapped, her face flushing red with indignation.
Beside Mary, Mr Mifford gave a sigh of annoyance--he did detest having to referee parish squabbles--before he elbowed his way to the front of the queue.
"That's quite enough, Mrs Canards," Mr Mifford said, "We shall not refuse entry to anyone with a subscription. My apologies, Mr Fairweather, do continue inside."
The Fairweathers--he tall and dark, she petite and flame-haired in a dress with an elaborately embroidered bodice--thanked Mr Mifford and marched past Mrs Canards with their heads held high.
"That was brave of Mrs Canards, to speak to Mr Fairweather so," Emily whispered to Mary, "For I've heard it said that he has a ferocious temper."
Mary too, had heard of the farmer's famed furies, and the jealous way in which he guarded his beautiful wife. She had been a seamstress in Bath, and he had lured her away to the countryside, only to now live in fear that she would grow bored and leave him. Given the way that Mr Fairweather had roared at Mrs Canards—who, though irritating, was elderly, and a lady--Mary could well believe that the stories she had heard about his frequent fistfights were true and she felt a jolt of pity for poor Mrs Fairweather to be stuck with such a brute.
The couple ahead of the Mifford family moved forward to purchase their tickets from Mrs Canards. They were well dressed, though not ostentatiously so, and spoke with well-mannered accents.
"Six-pence each," Mrs Canards declared, having decided that the pair passed muster enough to be allowed entry.
The gentleman paid for the tickets and gave Mrs Canards a bright smile.
"Thank you," he rumbled, "I am Mr Hargreaves, and this is my wife, Catherine; we are visiting from Abingdon. We only arrived at The King's Head this morning, where we heard about the assembly. Imagine, a duke! What a wonderful start to our week."
"I don't need your life story," Mary heard Mrs Canards mumble, as the gentleman ushered his wife inside, though thankfully Mary seemed to be the only one who had overheard her.
"The Miffords, how splendid," Mrs Canards said dryly, as Mrs Mifford handed over the family's voucher for inspection.
"Has His Grace arrived?" Mrs Mifford asked dismissively, matching Mrs Canards' rudeness with some of her own.
"Not yet, but I don't expect him until after eight; you know how dukes are," Mrs Canards, who had never met a duke in her life, replied airily.
Mary noted her Mama's nostrils flare slightly with rage; she abhorred condescension unless it was she who was practising it.
"Lord Crabb has also thought to grace us with his presence," Mrs Canards added, "Judging by his outfit, it has been a good half-century since he attended a dance."
The Miffords took their leave of the awful woman and made their way up the stairs to the assembly room. They entered to find the room looking the same as always, though its occupants had never looked so clean.
Each man was freshly shaven, their faces pink from the exertion with which they had been scrubbed with lye and water. The ladies all wore their best dresses, a strange mixture of fashions old and new. At the top of the room, in the seats Mrs Canards had insisted be given over to those in possession of a title, sat Mary's great-uncle, Lord Crabb.
Mary bit down on her lip to keep from giggling at the sight of him, though Jane was not so restrained.
"Faith," she giggled, elbowing Mary in the ribs, "He looks like a French king."
Indeed, there were some similarities to be found between Lord Crabb and the Dauphins of dear France. Upon his head, he wore a powdered wig, curly at the top and drawn into a pony-tail behind. His face was also powdered, a garish white, which clashed with the gold and pink brocade coat he wore over breeches of the same colour. While tonight he looked ridiculous, Mary did not doubt that at least fifty years ago he would have been regarded as a fashionable dandy.
"Hush," Mrs Mifford whispered, casting them both a glare, "I won't listen to you making fun of our dear Lord Crabb."
Dear Lord Crabb?
Mary blinked in confusion at this term of endearment, for her Mama found the viscount as cantankerous as everyone else. Though Lord Crabb had bestowed the living of Plumpton upon his niece's husband, he had only done so to vex his brother, who had wished to forbid the union. There was very little familial affection between uncle and niece. In fact, the only times that Lord Crabb appeared happy in the Miffords' company were those when he retold the tale of how he had undermined his own brother's authority, which, decades later, still gave him great satisfaction.
"Come," Mrs Mifford said, firmly, "We must offer our greetings to your sweet great-uncle."
Something was amiss, Mary thought, as her mother frogmarched them all toward the viscount. Mrs Mifford had a smile affixed to her face, though it was so forced that Mary could see the muscles twitching in her jaw.
"Uncle," Mrs Mifford cried gaily as they reached the viscount, "How lovely to see you."
"Balderdash," Lord Crabb wheezed, "You are not happy to see me; you're only happy that I might serve to introduce you to Northcott."
"Uncle," Mrs Mifford held a gloved hand to her heart, as though wounded, "How can you say such a thing when Northcott has not even arrived?"
Lord Crabb did not have a chance to reply, for a ripple of whispers went through the room, and every head turned toward the door. Northcott, resplendent in a dark coat and trousers, stood surveying the room with his cool, blue eyes. Beside him stood a lady of middling years, in a deep ruby gown, of material so lush that Mary felt a strong urge to rush over and stroke it.
"Northcott," Mrs Mifford breathed, before turning to Lord Crabb and offering him a sickly sweet smile, "Well, seeing as though he is here, it would be rude of me not to allow you to introduce us."
Mary had to give her mama credit for her audacious scheming; she had known that as social equals, it was expected that Northcott would seek out the company of the viscount. Indeed, the duke gave a rather alarmed look around the assembled citizens of Plumpton, before he spotted Lord Crabb and relief washed over his face. With a rigid back, the duke began to make his way over to the viscount and the Miffords, with his companion on his arm.
"Northcott."
Lord Crabb rose, creakily, to his feet to greet him.
"Lord Crabb," the duke replied formally, as though they were at court, "Allow me to introduce my mother, Her Grace, Cecilia, Duchess of Northcott."
Mary had guessed that the woman was Northcott's mother, given her age and the similarity of their colouring, but nevertheless, she felt a slight thrill to realise she was definitely in the company of a duchess. With surreptitious eyes, Mary assessed the duchess' clothing, hair, and jewellery--all tastefully elegant, yet obviously expensive--as well as her comportment, which was regal and proud. Never in her life had Mary seen one with as rigidly straight posture as Her Grace, and she hastily squared her own shoulders in reply.
Once Northcott had introduced Lord Crabb, it was Lord Crabb's turn to introduce his own extended family, albeit with a show of reluctance. Once he had introduced Mr and Mrs Mifford, he gave a loud sigh and turned to the four sisters and waved a hand at them.
"My great-nieces," he grumbled, "Miss Mifford, Miss Jane Mifford, Miss Emily Mifford, and Miss Eudora Mifford."
"My, my," Her Grace blinked, "Four girls in one house."
"Five if you include the cat," Mr Mifford replied, with a wince of suffering, "Though I try not to."
Mary saw Northcott's lips twitch in amusement, and a giddy thrill went through her, which she tried desperately to quash. It would not do to develop a fanciful longing for His Grace, for she had as much a
chance of capturing his attention as she did of capturing Prinny's.
And, she reminded herself sternly, you don't like men anymore; you are a spinster.
Still, despite her inner protests, when Northcott's blue eyes caught hers as she stared at him, she felt a shiver of something strange and delicious run through her.
Thankfully, the music began, allowing the Miffords to take their leave of the aristocratic circle they had found themselves in. Mr Mifford led his wife to the floor for the first set and Jane, Emily, and Eudora had their hands claimed by some of the town's young bucks, leaving Mary to wander the periphery of the room.
"Are you not dancing?" Sarah Hughes called, as Mary approached her.
"No one has asked me," Mary answered, trying not to let her upset show.
"I expect that is because you look so beautiful and elegant, that you are intimidating the local boys," Sarah answered, offering Mary a smile.
"Oh, hush," Mary waved away her compliment but was secretly beaming inside. Trust Sarah to know exactly what to say to bolster one's spirits.
"No, it is true," Sarah insisted, "And I am not the only one to notice how beautiful you look this evening--Northcott's gaze has been following you most decidedly as you move around the room."
"Hush, Sarah," Mary answered, this time flushing pink. Her heart, within her chest, began to beat furiously with excitement. Was it possible that Northcott admired her?
Mary thought for a moment, before deciding that, no, he did not. Possibly he was just marking her in self-defence, lest she lob another missile at his head.
The two ladies chatted idly, as they watched the dancers make their way through the set. At three and twenty, Sarah was also a confirmed spinster, though that was not from a lack of suitors. Sarah's mother had died some years ago, and she had taken it upon herself to help her father raise her three rambunctious brothers. She was, she often said, perfectly happy and content, though sometimes Mary wondered...
"Faith," Sarah scowled, a most unusual act for one so sweet, "What is Mr Parsims up to?"
Mary dragged herself from her reverie and looked across the room to where Mr Parsims stood talking to Mrs Fairweather.
Or, rather, leering at her, Mary thought, for the rector's eyes were fixed most firmly on the married woman's ample bosom as he spoke. As he talked, Mary saw Mrs Fairweather flush with embarrassment, her eyes darting this way and that, as though seeking an escape. Mrs Fairweather said something in reply to the rector, which made him laugh--a leering sound--and he looked her up and down from top to toe with a lascivious smile.
"Her husband won't like that," Sarah commented, and Mr Fairweather duly arrived at his wife's side, his face a mask of fury.
It was impossible to hear what was being said, as they were too far away, but there was no doubt that the words exchanged were ones of anger. Once Mr Fairweather had said his piece, he dragged his wife away to a far corner of the room where he began to scold her.
"Gracious, what a scene," Sarah said, throwing a glance of concern the couple's way, "It is not Mrs Fairweather's fault that Mr Parsims decided to behave so inappropriately."
"Alas," Mary was glum, "I think you'll find that some people think it's always the lady's fault."
Mrs Fairweather soon tired of the public dressing down and stormed from the room, her husband in pursuit. Mary could see Mr Parsims' eyes following them, his smile satisfied. He then moved on to Mrs Walker, a young widow who had moved to Plumpton a few years previously. Mrs Walker looked equally as uncomfortable in the rector's presence, though alas she had no husband to come to her rescue.
What a vile creature, Mary thought, feeling anger bubble within.
Her ire was soon to be stoked even further.
Mary, who had still not been asked to dance, sometime later found herself in a circle of ladies, exchanging idle chatter. Miss Laura Morton was busy espousing the wonders of the lengthy sermons Mr Parsims delivered every Sunday--a good two hours!--but Mary was only half-listening, for it was universally agreed that Miss Morton was something of a milksop.
"I am stitching some of his more inspiring words onto a sampler," Miss Morton preened, batting her eyelashes prettily as she awaited praise and admiration.
"I can't think of any man less worthy of idolatry," Mary whispered waspishly to Jane, who stood beside her.
Jane nodded silently in agreement, as she discreetly rolled her eyes. Mr Parsims had few admirers amongst the Mifford clan.
"I say," Miss Morton frowned, as she noted something, "Are you very well acquainted with the duke, Miss Mifford? For he keeps looking your way."
Mary glanced over to where Northcott stood at the top of the room beside Lord Crabb. Neither man had deigned to dance, as had been expected, and instead stood, haughtily surveying the room. Well, Lord Crabb was haughtily surveying the room; the duke was, indeed, staring in her direction.
"We have been introduced," Mary replied, hoping that she did not sound as though she was gloating.
"Oh, how grand," Miss Morton swooned a little, casting a longing gaze in Northcott's direction.
"There was very little grandeur when Miss Mifford was first introduced to His Grace," a voice interrupted.
Mary's shoulders stiffened with fear as Mr Parsims ingratiated himself into the circle of ladies. She had not told anyone--not even Jane--of the disastrous first impression she had made on the duke for fear of scorn and ridicule. Now, as she realised that Mr Parsims was about to reveal her social misstep, Mary rather wished that she had told everyone herself. It is far easier to laugh at oneself than to be laughed at.
"The first time that Miss Mifford met His Grace was outside my home," Mr Parsims said, glancing around the circle of ladies to make certain that each one was listening. "Would you believe, she mistook him for a thief?"
"Never!" Mrs Canards was scandalised, while Miss Wickling tutted in disapproval.
"Even worse," Mr Parsims continued, allowing himself a rueful chuckle, "She threw something at him, thinking he was about to try break-in through my window."
A chorus of giggles went up from the circle of ladies, and Mary felt her face flush hot with embarrassment.
"With such sound social nous, it's easy to see why you were such a success in London, Miss Mifford," Mr Parsims finished, smiling as he turned to witness Mary's reaction to his public drubbing down.
Miss Morton looked so pleased with the turn of events that Mary was certain only manners were keeping her from rushing home and stitching the whole conversation onto a sampler. Shame and humiliation bubbled within Mary and, worse, rage.
Usually, Mary was in complete control of her emotions, but as this was the second time that Mr Parsims had sought to humiliate her--and as she knew that humiliation was the sport he most enjoyed--something inside her snapped.
"Oh," she retorted, hands-on-hips, "You are the most odious of men, Mr Parsims, and everybody knows it. I hope--I hope--I hope someone murders you on your way home."
Shocked silence greeted her outburst. Even Mr Parsims had nothing to say in response to having death wished upon him. Mary knew that she had transgressed, and her initial urge was to apologise, but a hand slipped into hers.
Jane.
Steadfast Jane stood beside her, offering Mr Parsims a cool glare.
"My sister does not really wish you ill, Sir," Jane said, rescuing the situation somewhat, "But she is correct; your behaviour and manners are not fitting of a man who represents the church. Good evening."
Jane pulled Mary away from the gaggle of ladies and Mr Parsims, to a quiet corner of the room.
"Oh, Mary," Jane sighed, "I know he was provoking, but you should not have risen to it."
"I know," Mary wailed, glancing around the assembly room, to find its occupants were stealing covert glances at her. Gossip travelled quickly in Plumpton and Mary did not doubt that news of her outburst would soon meet the duke's ears.
And worse. Her mother's.
"I fear I have a migraine coming on," Mary deci
ded, raising a hand to her temple to add levity to her claim.
"You do not suffer from migraines," Jane answered.
"Well, I do now," Mary was firm, "I cannot stay, Jane. I shall be an object of ridicule for the rest of the night."
"You shan't," Jane assured her, "There's not a soul in Plumpton who has not wished to say something similar to Mr Parsims--you shall be regarded as a hero."
"Only men can be heroes," Mary was glum, "I think you'll find me cast in the role of the hysterical shrew. Oh, Jane, I simply must take my leave. Will you explain to the others that I am gone home?"
Mary did not wait for her sister's reply. Instead, she turned on the heel of her dancing slipper and fled for the door.
"Are you alright dear?" a woman--whom Mary recognised as Mrs Hargreaves, newly resident at The King's Head--asked, as Mary reached the door.
Mrs Hargreaves stood alone, waiting, Mary presumed for her husband to fetch her shawl. She offered Mary a kindly smile, but even the kindness of a stranger could not rescue Mary from the depths of despair.
"I have a migraine, that is all," Mary whispered, and thankfully was spared having to explain herself any further as Mr Hargreaves returned, clutching his wife's coat.
"You will never guess what mangy cur I have sighted, Catherine," he growled.
Mary, who had no wish to linger, used his arrival as a means of escape. She slipped out the door, down the stairs, and out into the village square.
A few carts and gigs were parked up before The Ring'O'Bells, alongside a very fine carriage which Mary assumed belonged to the duke. On any other night, Mary might have lingered to admire the liveried footman and driver, the bay geldings, and the coat of arms emblazoned upon the carriage's door, but this was not just any night.
No, this was the night that Miss Mary Mifford had fallen spectacularly from grace, and she wished to be alone to wallow in her misery.
Mary made her way home under the light of a full moon, and once inside Primrose Cottage, she raced upstairs to the room she shared with Jane. Her hands shook as she undid the buttons of her dress, and such was the height of her emotions that she almost flung the thing across the room in a temper. As it was, however, the nicest dress that any of the Mifford girls had ever owned, Mary refrained from such dramatics, and carefully hung the dress inside the wardrobe, before donning her night-rail.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 4