"That sounds like my mother," Mary whispered, pulling away from him to glance fearfully through the door, "I must go."
"I should be off, as well," Henry replied, "I will have to set out for Stroud at dawn."
Not for the first time in his life, Henry wished he had a better way with words. Another man might have whispered something about parting being such sweet sorrow to Miss Mifford, but Henry had slipped from lover back to dullard in the space of a second.
"Your handkerchief," Mary whispered, her eyes staring down at the cloth in her hand and not at Henry, "It's too pretty to leave behind."
Henry was about to tell her to hold onto it, when he recalled that it was not actually his.
"I took that from Monsieur Canet's room," he confessed, further killing the romantic mood by admitting he had stolen from a dead man.
"By mistake," he hastened to clarify, as Mary frowned down at it.
"It's so pretty," she said again, "Mrs Walker must have embroidered it for him; I shall return it to her in the morning."
Did ladies embroider handkerchiefs for their beaus? Henry, who had umpteen drawers filled with silk ones from Bond Street's finest tailors, believed that he would happily give them all away in exchange for a simple one from Miss Mifford.
"I shall call on you tomorrow," Henry said, as another noise from upstairs caused Mary to jump, "To let you know the happenings in Stroud."
"I shall look forward to it, Your Grace," Mary replied, as she accepted the candle back from him, "Safe home."
A mad urge came over Henry; the urge to barge upstairs to Mr and Mrs Mifford's bedchamber and inform them that he was taking their eldest daughter for his bride. They could ride to London overnight, secure a special license from the Archbishop, and be married by noon, he thought wildly. Mr Mifford might put up some sort of protest, but his wife would probably pack dry biscuits for their journey and wave them on their way.
However, as Henry had been busy thinking about acting, Miss Mifford had already acted.
"Goodnight, Your Grace," she whispered from the hallway she had stolen into, "Until tomorrow."
She shut the door, bringing Henry's fantasy to an end.
Henry stood staring at the closed door for a minute, a sense of disappointment replacing the wild urgency which had filled him.
"It's Henry," he whispered into the night air, "Call me Henry."
And then, when English sensibility took over him, Henry turned on his heel and left.
Chapter Eleven
Mary had never kept a secret from Jane in her life, but the next morning made her wonder if that was because Jane made it particularly difficult for one to keep secrets.
Mary arrived late to breakfast, still tired from staying up so late to wait for Northcott, and as she entered the dining room, Mary felt Jane's eyes upon her.
"Nora was down in the village this morning," Jane stated, as Mary slipped into the seat next to her, "She said that everyone is abuzz about the murders and that there will be a hearing in Stroud to see if Mr Fairweather should be sent to Bristol for trial."
"I know," Mary replied absently, as she reached for a bread roll.
"You know?" Jane raised an eyebrow with suspicion.
"I mean, I assumed as much," Mary corrected herself, inwardly cursing her stumble, "We knew that Northcott was going to the Fairweather farm, and suspected that he was guilty. It is only then natural that he should go to Stroud, for there are no jail cells here. That is what I meant, when I said that I knew."
After Mary had finished speaking, she realised the error of her ways. An impertinent question asked from sister to sister was usually answered with an equally impertinent answer--not a rambling explanation with far too much detail. It would have been far more believable had Mary simply huffed, in the pained voice of the eldest sister, "because I know".
Jane frowned thoughtfully in her direction, but Mary refused to blush. It was not that she did not want to share her secret with her sister--she wished she could shout it from the rooftop--but the morning after the night before, doubt had begun to set in.
Northcott's kiss had felt terribly romantic last night, but given time to think it over again--and again, and again--Mary had convinced herself that it was a mistake on the duke's part. He had done it on impulse, and had obviously regretted it, given his brusque manner afterwards.
Thus, Mary had no wish to tell her sister that Northcott had kissed her, for Jane would only become excited on her behalf. Leading both of them to be disappointed at the end of it all.
As Mary munched on her bread roll and sipped on her tea, her sisters continued discussing the murders. They were all in agreement that Mr Fairweather was an unpleasant sort, who had every look of a man capable of murder.
"Only God and the courts can decide on his guilt," Mr Mifford cautioned from behind his newspaper, but no one paid him any heed.
Except Mary.
Although she was the one who had drawn the connection between Mr Parsims, Monsieur Canet, and Mr Fairweather, she was beginning to doubt herself. Northcott's assertion that the farmer refused to confess to save his neck from a certain hanging held some gravitas, yet still Mary wondered.
Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling had been relieved to finally share the secrets which had pressed on their souls for so long, but Mr Fairweather had not sought similar relief.
Though, it was also possible that a man capable of murder had no soul to feel pained by, Mary thought, and she pushed the thought away.
Once breakfast had ended, Mary pushed back her chair and announced her intention to take a walk to the village.
"Perhaps I will join you," Jane suggested, as she followed Mary from the dining room into the hall.
"Usually, I would love for you to accompany me, Jane," Mary replied, "But I am afraid that I need to go alone today--I am going to call on Mrs Walker."
In a whisper, Mary quickly explained that Mrs Walker and Monsieur Canet had secretly been engaged to marry.
"Northcott found this handkerchief in Monsieur's bedchamber," Mary continued, taking the item from her skirt for Jane to view, "And I wish to return it to Mrs Walker, for I'm certain it has great sentimental value to her."
"When did Northcott give you the handkerchief?" Jane questioned, her eyes knowing.
Jane had tried to keep Mary company the night before, as she had waited for the duke's return, but had fallen asleep just after midnight. She quite obviously suspected that Northcott had visited and that Mary was keeping something from her--and she was correct in both regards.
"He gave it to me on the green," Mary lied, her cheeks pink, "And that is not the issue at hand, Jane. Mrs Walker is suffering, and I wish to offer her some comfort. Now, if you will excuse me."
Mary adopted her pious-older-sister expression, which instantly irritated Jane, as she had known it would.
"Suit yourself," Jane murmured in reply, "I'd rather walk alone anyway."
It was but a sisterly squabble; Mary knew that by dinnertime they would be the best of friends again, so she did not dwell on their argument as she made her way down to the village. She wore her second-best walking dress, for her dress from yesterday was now dreadfully creased, but as she made her way along High Street, Mary wished she had worn something better.
Every eye in the village seemed to follow her as she walked, leaving Mary feeling self-conscious. At first, she thought it was her imagination, but as a group of ladies outside the haberdashery turned to stare quite openly as she passed, she knew it was not so.
Was there something on her face, she wondered, as she surreptitiously tried to scrub at her cheek with her gloved hand. Perhaps her skirt had become tucked into her petticoats, she thought, though a subtle brush of her bottom revealed that her modesty was still very much so covered.
It was only when Mary heard someone audibly mention the duke and her name in the same sentence, that Mary realised what was amiss; the whole town had seen her on the green with Northcott. They had witnessed him singling
her out from the crowd, talking to her in a whisper, and taking her hand in his--and they had obviously drawn their own conclusions.
Mary could have wept; she had lied to Jane to keep her from becoming excited on Mary's behalf, but she could not persuade the whole town to her side. Worse; whispers would soon reach her mother's ears, who would then fan the fires of rumour and intrigue like a bellows.
And when Northcott disappeared back to London, whilst Mary was left alone and single as ever, the whole town would know her disappointment.
Again.
The only thing which kept Mary from drowning in a well of self-pity was seeing how upset Mrs Walker was when she opened the door to Mary's knock.
Some people have real troubles, Mary chided herself; there were far greater woes in life than losing face.
Mary followed Mrs Walker into the kitchen, where she set about making the poor woman some tea.
"Thank you," Mrs Walker sniffled, "Please excuse my tears, I'm afraid that I did not get much sleep last night and am a little overwrought."
"Hush," Mary comforted her, "You must not apologise for crying; it's only natural after such a great loss."
Her kind words sent Mrs Walker off into another bout of tears, during which Mary could do no more than pat her arm and whisper "there, there". Once she had cried herself out, Mrs Walker fell into reminiscing about Monsieur Canet who, by the sounds of things, had swept her off her feet with his Gallic charm.
"I have had so much good news of late that it was foolish of me not to expect something terrible to happen," Mrs Walker sighed, "First, my aunt told me that she was leaving the farm to me in her will, and not my cousin George as was expected. Then Guillame asked me to marry him. Oh! I thought that finally life was taking pity on me."
Mary wished she was not so cynical, but as Mrs Walker explained her run of good luck, she longed to question in what order these two events had taken place. From the way Mrs Walker had told it, her relationship--or affair, as her Mama might call it--had been a secretive one; had Monsieur Canet only proposed when he learned that Mrs Walker was set to inherit her aunt's sizable farm?
Mary hated herself for it, but she could not help but feel it was true. Her father had said that a woman who falls for a rake once is a sure target for a second one, and Mary was inclined to believe him. Even after her unfortunate affair with her soldier, poor Mrs Walker had not learned that it was always best to be suspicious of charming men.
"I have brought something for you," Mary said, as a means to distract herself from her mean thoughts of Monsieur Canet. She reached into her skirt pocket, fished out the handkerchief, and handed it to Mrs Walker.
"His Grace found it in Monsieur Canet's room last night," she said, as Mrs Walker stared at it blankly, "He wanted it returned to you, as it is obviously sentimental."
"I've never seen it before in my life."
Both women stared down at the hankie, upon which the initials G.C. had been stitched, encircled by flowers and hearts. Mary felt her stomach churn, as she realised that she may have made a bad situation far worse for poor Mrs Walker.
"Perhaps his mother made it for him?" Mary suggested brightly.
"She's been dead thirty years," Mrs Walker replied, pushing the handkerchief back across the table to Mary.
From another room there came a terrible clatter, accompanied by the sound of a child's wailing.
"That will be Benjamin," Mrs Walker gave a sigh of relief at the distraction, "I must go check on him."
"I will show myself out," Mary replied, "Do call on me if you need anything, Mrs Walker."
Outside, Mary stuffed the offending handkerchief back into her pocket, feeling like a fool. She had wanted to console poor Mrs Walker, but she had only brought her further worry.
Mary kept her head down as she made her way back up High Street, unable to weather any more stares. She soon realised that she needn't have worried about anyone staring at her, for as she passed the haberdashery, she saw that another poor soul had become the object of the town's scrutiny.
Mrs Fairweather exited the shop, with a shawl thrown over her auburn tresses. She looked straight ahead as she walked, seemingly deaf to the whispers which followed her.
It was not fair, Mary thought as she spotted Mrs Canards glaring openly at the poor woman, that a wife should suffer for her husband's crimes. Recalling Sarah's public display of loyalty to her, Mary rushed after Mrs Fairweather, hoping that the whole village would learn about it soon.
"Mrs Fairweather," Mary called, slightly out of breath as she reached her.
The seamstress turned at the sound of her name, her eyes wary, like a frightened animal.
"I just wanted to say that I am sorry for what has happened with your husband," Mary offered, hoping that her voice would carry over to where Mrs Canards stood, "But you are not to feel alone; the whole town knows that it was your husband and not you who committed those terrible crimes."
From behind Mary came a burst of incredulous laughter and she did not have to turn her head to guess who it had come from.
Mrs Fairweather shot Mary a rueful smile, as she shrugged her shoulders in defeat.
"Thank you, for your kind words, Miss Mifford," she said, "But I am afraid that you might be the only person in Plumpton who believes that. Not that it matters; I am taking the stagecoach to Bristol this afternoon. If you will excuse me, I only came to town for some rope for my portmanteau, and I must pack quickly for the coach is expected at the turnpike by three."
With that, Mrs Fairweather turned on her heel and departed, not once glancing back at Mary, or Plumpton, as she walked.
"Folks like her have no appreciation of kindness," Mrs Canards called out to Mary as she passed.
"I doubt you have any experience of offering anyone kindness," Mary retorted, under her breath. Had she been braver she might have said her words aloud, but it was Mrs Fairweather who was leaving Plumpton, not Mary, and it would make the meetings of the Ladies' Society unbearable if she were to start a war of words with Mrs Canards.
Mary felt thoroughly wretched when she arrived back to Primrose Cottage. It was not fair that the only people to suffer were poor Mrs Walker and Mrs Fairweather, while people like Mrs Canards remained unscathed.
"How did it go?" Jane queried, as Mary entered the drawing room and flopped herself down on the chaise longue.
"Terribly," Mary sighed, before she explained the saga with the handkerchief to her sister.
"Perhaps it is a token from an old love?" Jane said, as she came over to inspect the linen, "Though it does look rather new."
"A little too new," Mary agreed sourly.
Any more talk of Mrs Walker or Monsieur Canet was brought to a halt by the arrival of Eudora. She was again wearing a pair of spectacles, through which she blinked owlishly at Mary.
"What are you doing here?" she queried of Mary.
"I live here," Mary reminded her, "Although you appear to have been stricken with a case of acute short-sightedness, I fail to believe that you don't recognise me."
"Of course I recognise you," Eudora replied, in a tone of exasperation which matched Mary's to perfection, "I was just wondering why you are sitting in the parlour, when the Duchess of Northcott is expecting you to arrive for tea at any moment."
As ever, when conversing with her youngest sister, Mary felt herself overwhelmed with confusion.
"Why on earth should she be expecting me?" Mary queried, as a feeling of anxiety began to grow inside her.
"A footman called yesterday with an invitation for you," Eudora answered, in the tone that one might use with a child, "He wanted an answer straight away, so I told him that you would, of course, attend."
"And did you not think to tell me that I had accepted this invitation?" Mary's voice rose several octaves in her panic.
"I told Emily to tell you, in case I forgot," Eudora was exasperated, "And it was lucky that I did, for with all last night's excitement, it completely left my head."
"How
is it lucky, when she forgot too?" Mary wailed, dashing over to the mirror to check her appearance.
Jane materialised at her shoulder, tucking in stray strands of hair, before brushing down the back of her skirts with a firm hand--which probably did very little aesthetically but which served to soothe Mary's nerves a little.
"Change your shoes," Jane ordered, "I shall ready the gig."
"Should I do anything?" Eudora asked, but she was roundly ignored by her two sisters.
Upstairs, Mary changed into her kid-skin boots and donned her finest spencer jacket over her walking dress. She fervently wished that she had time to change into something nicer, but she reasoned that it was better to arrive to an audience with a duchess on time.
The front door was open when Mary barrelled down the stairs. Outside, she could see Jane holding the reins of Daisy, the family horse--or nag, if one was being honest--who was rigged up to the gig.
"Thank you!" Mary called, grabbing the reins from Jane and leaping up into the seat. With a flick of her wrists, she urged Daisy into a fast trot, and they set off for Northcott Manor.
Mary stared straight ahead as she drove the gig through the village, afraid that if she spotted someone she knew that they would try detain her. Over the bridge they went, down through Lower Plumpton and past Mrs Wickling's cottage, until they were out on the road to Bath.
A grey ceiling of cloud had formed in the sky above, dark and heavy with rain. Mary said a silent prayer as she passed St Mary's that the rain would hold off until she arrived at Northcott Manor and God saw fit to listen.
The first drops of rain began to fall as the gates of Northcott Manor came into view, and they continued to fall in a haphazard manner--a drop here, a drop there--as Mary drove up the tree-lined drive. As a footman rushed out to greet her, the shower finally began in earnest, though by this time Mary was comfortably sheltered from it by a handsome, liveried young man who kindly held an umbrella over her head.
"Best hurry inside, Miss Mifford," the footman urged her, his words accompanied by a roll of thunder.
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 14