No, Mary would not be passing on Edward's regards, she thought stubbornly. Though she was grateful to him for obliging her, that gratitude was not worth her mother's ire. If Mrs Mifford thought that Mary had facilitated a romance between her third daughter and a footman in any way, there would be a second murder in Plumpton.
"What shall we do now?" Jane queried, once they were back out on the village green.
"I don't know about you two," Sarah replied, as the bells of the church began to peal the hour, "But I must away home. Alex said he would be at the crossroads at a quarter-past, and that he would wait only a minute. I would love to stay and help out, but I'm afraid I would also love not to have to walk home."
Sarah bid her two friends goodbye, and when she spotted Mrs Canards on the far side of the green, she pulled Mary into a hug.
"I wish to let the old bat know whose side I'm on," Sarah whispered in Mary's ear, before releasing her and departing with a cheery goodbye.
Mary felt tears of gratitude sting her eyes; Sarah was a good friend, who had gone out of her way to display her loyalty so the whole village might know it. Across the green, Mary could see Mrs Canards scowling with annoyance. It must have been very disappointing for her to have seen Mary supported by a friend, instead of strung up in the stocks as she would have preferred.
Not that Plumpton had stocks anymore. Though, who knew, at the next meeting of the Ladies' Society, Mrs Canards might petition to have them reinstalled.
Mary linked her arm through Jane's to begin the short walk back to Primrose Cottage. They had not taken more than a dozen steps when another--most unexpected--lady decided she also wished to throw the weight of her support behind Mary.
The Duchess of Northcott, wearing a turban of ostrich feathers which fluttered in the wind, came haring down High-Street in a curricle, the likes of which Plumpton had never seen. The beautiful vehicle drew to a stop beside Mary and Jane--the latter giving a quiet whistle of admiration at seeing a lady hold the reins--and Her Grace smiled down beatifically at Mary.
"Miss Mifford," she called, loud enough so that all might hear, "I wish to take tea with you. Do call on me next week, when you are free."
"Yes, Your Grace," Mary stuttered, and with that answer, Her Grace took off again with the flick of a whip.
"I cannot believe I have been invited to tea with a duchess," Mary whispered, chancing a glance over her shoulder to see if Mrs Canards had heard.
Judging by the puce of her face--the universally recognised colour of unexpected irritation--Mary guessed that she had. Which was perfect, for it meant the whole town would know in an hour.
"More a command than an invite," Jane observed, but Mary paid no heed. A duchess could do as she pleased, in Mary's opinion, not for a second even contemplating that she might one day hold that title.
Northcott must have petitioned his mother to show her support, she thought, feeling a small flutter of pleasure in her stomach, which she quickly tried to quell.
His Grace was an admirable man, and it would be foolish of her to take a kind act on his part to mean that he felt anything toward her except his ducal obligations. Mary recalled the dull pain of disappointment that she had felt upon leaving London and attempted to use the echo of that hurt to quash any hope which had momentarily fluttered in her breast.
It worked wonders; the burgeoning feeling of excitement within her died an instant death as she imagined how utterly wretched she would feel if she allowed herself to believe that Northcott might have an interest in her, only to discover that he did not. A young lady would be very foolish indeed to imagine that a duke might want her, when other, lesser men, in London had not.
The two girls continued back to Primrose Cottage, with Jane chattering happily the whole way. Mary found that she could not muster the energy to join in, but, thankfully, Jane was the type of girl who could carry on whole conversations alone.
Mrs Mifford pounced on her two daughters the moment they walked through the door. Her eyes raked Mary from top to toe--perhaps searching for remnants of the rotten vegetables she imagined the villagers had thrown at her--and her mouth was twisted with worry.
"Did anyone see you?" she hissed, clutching at Mary's arm with a surprisingly strong grip for one so small.
"Plenty," Jane answered, to which Mrs Mifford answered with a wail of despair.
"Oh," she held a hand to her brow, "What was I thinking letting you go out? I should never have let you talk me into it, Jane."
For the second time that day, Mrs Mifford had rewritten the script of how the past had played out to her own liking--this time with Jane as the villain of the piece. Mary stifled a sigh and was about to correct her mother, but Jane spoke before she had a chance.
"I'd say about a half-dozen souls were there, when the Duchess of Northcott stopped to ask Mary to tea."
"The Duchess of Northcott invited you to tea?"
Mrs Mifford's head turned so quickly that Mary inwardly marvelled that it did not fly off her neck and through the window. Her eyes, blue like Mary's own, were wide and filled with hope--the very hope that Mary had just tried to quash within herself.
Oh dear, Mary thought, as she nervously chewed on her lip. It was easy to talk herself out of believing that the Duke of Northcott was interested in her, for she was, at heart, a sensible and practical girl--traits she had inherited from her father. Her mother was prone to flights of fancy, and if she even so much as suspected that Northcott held a candle for Mary, she would try her best to fan that flame into a burning inferno, not caring who might be burned in the process.
"I believe that she wished to show her support for me," Mary answered, stiffly, "His Grace has taken on the yoke of the investigation into Mr Parsims' death, and believes me innocent. He is fastidiously committed to his duties."
"I wonder would he be so committed, if his duty did not involve a pretty young woman?" Mrs Mifford pondered, to which Mary did not reply.
Instead, hoping to distract, she explained to her mother what she and Northcott had discovered so far, finishing with the invitation that had been extended to the Hargreaves to visit upon their return from Evesham.
"His Grace should be present when they call," Mrs Mifford decided, as Mary finished speaking.
"If only we knew when that would be," Mary replied; the Hargreaves might not return until the evening.
"Yes," Mrs Mifford continued, deaf to Mary's point, "We should send word to him to come at once. You girls may entertain him by playing on the pianoforte while we wait. Or, perhaps, you might sing for him, Mary--he'd like that."
Mary and Jane glanced at each other in horror; if their mother's plan was to come to fruition, it would have the very opposite effect of what she hoped for. If Northcott was to hear Mary sing--a sound not unlike a bag of cats being drowned, according to the honest assessment of all her sisters--he would never look at her with anything other than revulsion again.
"Perhaps it's best if Northcott does not hear Mary sing," Jane demurred, "He might believe her capable of murder after all."
Mary did not take offence; sisters could always be counted upon to give an honest assessment of one's talents, or lack thereof. And it was better to have one's pride injured privately by a sister than face public ridicule from strangers.
"Don't be silly, dear," Mrs Mifford scolded her second born, "Mary sings like a bird."
"A goose?" Jane suggested, but Mrs Mifford roundly ignored her.
"We shall send Nora to the manor at once," Mrs Mifford decided aloud.
"But it's going to rain," Mary argued, for outside dark clouds had begun to gather, but her mother simply shrugged in reply.
"A little rain never hurt anyone," she said grimly, as a roll of thunder sounded outside. Nora was in Mrs Mifford's bad books as she had been asleep when Mary had returned from the assembly and had not been able to vouch for her whereabouts on the night of Mr Parsims' murder. She had also refused, despite some very unsubtle hinting on Mrs Mifford's part, to lie on Ma
ry's behalf. There had been much muttering about treason ever since, despite Mary and Jane pointing out to their mama that asking Nora to lie might add to the weight of suspicion on Mary.
Nora was thusly dispatched to Northcott Manor, with a note from Mary explaining things, leaving Mrs Mifford to badger her daughters into preparing for the duke's arrival.
"And where is your father?" she huffed, as Eudora appeared, wearing a pair of spectacles which did not belong to her.
"Mr Waverly called, seeking father's advice on a spiritual matter," Eudora offered, blinking owlishly from behind her lenses.
"So, is he in the library ministering to him?" Mrs Mifford prompted.
"Gemini, no. He took off through the back-door and bid me tell Mr Waverly that he was out," Eudora replied mildly, unsurprised by her father's response. Mr Mifford was an adequate vicar, performing his duties as needed, but his personality was such that he could not feign an interest in the needier of his flock, including Mr Waverly, who liked to consult with Mr Mifford before making even the most minute decisions.
"Who can blame him," Mrs Mifford rolled her eyes, equally as impatient as her husband, "Mr Waverly can barely tie a knot without asking your father if he approves. Eudora, go find him and tell him he must put on a clean shirt. Jane and Mary, you will have to change into your best dresses. Honestly, Jane, look at the hem of your skirt. Someone tell Nora to go straighten the parlour room--"
"She's on her way to Northcott Manor," Mary reminded her mother.
"Typical of her to go missing when she's most needed," Mrs Mifford huffed, irrationally, "Someone go find Emily and tell her to straighten the parlour. Mary, go find your father. Eudora, put on your best dress. Jane! Why are you just standing there, did I not tell you to find Nora and tell her to change her shirt?"
Mary, recognising that her mother was on the verge of exploding, hastily took her leave. She changed into a day dress of cambric muslin, richly finished around the hem with lace, and overlaid by a layer of jaconet. She dressed her hair carefully, trying to make it look as though it had not been dressed at all--an arduous task--then returned downstairs.
The parlour room was spotlessly clean, as were its three occupants, who all wore looks of irritation along with their best gowns.
"When you and Northcott are finished investigating Mr Parsims murder, I shall oblige you with another one to solve," Jane whispered, as Mary sat down beside her on the chaise longue.
Thankfully, the Hargreaves arrived a few moments later, negating any opportunity for Jane to carry out her planned matricide.
Mary heard her mother open the door to the couple and usher them inside.
"What a complete surprise," Mrs Mifford trilled, as she led the pair into the parlour.
"Well, you did leave a note asking us to call," Mr Hargreaves answered in confusion.
"Quite," Mrs Mifford pouted as her feigned nonchalance was called into question, "Tea?"
Eudora was dispatched to the kitchen to make tea in Nora's absence, and as she returned with a tray laden with china cups and saucers, a sharp knock came upon the door, this time answered by Mr Mifford, who had just made his way downstairs after changing his shirt.
"That will be the duke," Mrs Mifford offered casually to the Hargreaves, as though it was a sentence she uttered regularly.
Mr Mifford entered the parlour, followed by Northcott, and Mary felt a twinge of something deep within her stomach. It was strange to see him in such familiar surroundings; he seemed larger and more broad as he stood amongst the chintz and stuffing of the parlour room, his shoulders damp with raindrops.
Introductions were made and, mercifully, Northcott then took command of the gathering before Mrs Mifford had a chance to suggest that Mary play on the pianoforte.
"Miss Mifford has led me to believe that you might have been acquainted with the recently departed Mr Parsims?" Northcott began, addressing Mr Hargreaves.
"Indeed, we were," Mr Hargreaves made a face, the type of face one makes when they have smelled something particularly offensive.
"Would you care to elaborate?" Northcott questioned, resting himself in the Queen Anne chair which faced the Hargreaves.
Mary, though the situation was serious, took a moment to appreciate how Northcott's muscular frame completely dwarfed the chair. It was strange to see such a masculine specimen in a parlour room that was usually filled with female forms.
"I am afraid that I would rather not say in front of young ladies," Mr Hargreaves replied, with a nod to the four sisters squashed together on the couch.
Mary resisted the urge to protest childishly in front of the duke; however, her other three sisters did not have the same reserve.
"It's not fair," Eudora pouted, as Emily chimed in with agreement.
"Perhaps," Northcott held up a hand to silence the room, "Miss Mifford might stay. She is, after all, the eldest, and has a stake in the conversation."
His suggestions silenced Emily and Eudora, who left the room without further fuss, safe in the knowledge that Mary would inform them of what had transpired in their absence. Only Jane lingered, wearing a wistful look upon her face, which Mary sought to remedy with a knowing wink.
Alas, her risqué gesture reached not only Jane but Northcott too, whose ears turned red as his eye caught Mary's. Mary blushed, the duke flushed, and neither was able to pay much attention to Mr Hargreaves as he began his tale.
"Parsims left Abingdon three years ago," Mr Hargreaves said, as Mary struggled to focus her attention on him, "He had been in the parish for five years before that and was not much liked."
"I'd well believe," Mrs Mifford murmured before her husband shushed her.
"People grumbled that he was a penny-pincher," Mr Hargreaves continued, "And very demanding of his dues, but then no one relishes paying their tithes."
Mr Hargreaves offered Mr Mifford an apologetic glance at this last bit, but Mr Mifford smiled to show he had taken no offence.
"I find if you share a bottle of brandy when they are delivered that it dulls the blow somewhat," he grinned. Mary hid a smile behind her hand; her father might not be the most pious of men, but he did know how to endear himself to his flock.
"My preferred form of spiritual worship," Hargreaves gave a bellow of laughter, only ceasing when his wife elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Ah, where was I? Yes, people grumbled about Parsims, but when you reach my age, you realise that people will grumble about anything--especially if it involves money. He was sharp-tongued as well, could cut a man in two with words if he felt like it."
Mary nodded silently in agreement with this statement, having been on the receiving end of Parsims' wrathful words herself.
"But being cantankerous is not a reason to dismiss a man from his living," Hargreaves sighed, "More's the pity. The town suffered on through his sermons for years, until one winter matters came to a head."
Mr Hargreaves paused for dramatic effect, and Mary leaned forward, willing him to continue.
"A young woman was found standing on the ledge of Burford Bridge, greatly upset and about to jump in," Mr Hargreaves continued, as beside him, his wife blessed herself, "The lady who found her managed to talk her down and when she inquired into the reason for her upset, it was revealed that Mr Parsims was the cause."
Mary grimaced, her mind instantly jumping to the conclusion that there had been some kind of love affair between the pair, but Mr Hargreaves soon put paid to that notion.
"This young woman had confided in Mr Parsims about a problem she was having..." Mr Hargreaves said delicately, casting a furtive look at Mary, "...with her employer."
"Ah," Mrs Mifford nodded knowingly, though Mary felt rather in the dark.
"Having confided in him, the young woman had hoped that Mr Parsims would assist her in extracting herself from her predicament, but it wasn't assistance he offered," Mr Hargreaves scowled, "The mangy cur--"
"--Harold," his wife admonished the epithet.
"Well, he was," Mr Hargreaves muttered
with a petulant lip, "As I was saying, the no-good so-and-so did not offer the lass help; instead, he used her secret for his own gain. He began extorting money from her--just a few groats, but a lot to a young woman in service--threatening to reveal all if she refused to pay."
"Bribery," Northcott breathed, his eye-catching Mary's.
Was that what the list of names was--a list of people whom Mr Parsims was bribing? Mary was shocked, though her mind quickly began to wonder what on earth it was that the dull Mrs Wickling had done that warranted bribing.
"Parsims was confronted, and once it became known what he had done, others came forward to say that they too had been bribed by him," Mr Hargreaves finished, "He gleaned small, salacious secrets from his flock, aware that they would pay whatever he asked to save face, and that they would be too ashamed to call him out and risk ridicule."
"A clever plan," Mr Mifford said with a deep sigh, "People trust all their secrets to a vicar."
"They do?" Mrs Mifford frowned at her husband, "Who has confided in you? What did they say? Dear Albert, you never told me."
Mary blushed, embarrassed that Northcott was there to witness her mother's outrage at having gossip kept from her. Thankfully, the duke appeared to have missed Mrs Mifford's outburst, so lost was he in thought.
"This has been most illuminating," Northcott said, after a moment of deep contemplation, "Thank you both very much for your time. If there is anything that I can do to make your stay in Plumpton more comfortable, please let me know."
"Oh, that's not necessary," Mrs Hargreaves demurred at the same timed as her husband said, "Well, I do enjoy a spot of hunting."
Northcott's face broke into a relaxed smile at the unintentional display of matrimonial disharmony. Mrs Hargreaves was again elbowing her husband, who for a man of sixty-odd looked remarkably boyish and petulant at that second.
"My grounds are at your disposal," Northcott offered, magnanimously, "I shall tell my gamekeeper to expect you, though he tells me that the pheasant are not as plentiful as they ought to be for this time of year."
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 9