He escorted her up the sweep of steps and through a set of double doors, which led to the entrance hall. Mary tried not to gasp as she noted the high ceiling--as cavernous as the one in Bath Abbey--the marbled tiles upon the floor, and the grand, gilded staircase which led upstairs.
"May I take your coat, Miss Mifford?"
A stoic butler materialised from thin air to take Mary's spencer, which she handed over reluctantly as it had hidden the worst aspects of her dress. He then led Mary from the hall to the parlour room--or the blue parlour room, as he called it, which indicated there was more than one--to where the Dowager Duchess of Northcott was waiting.
"Miss Mifford, you are welcome," the duchess greeted, waving a hand to indicate that Mary should sit.
Mary obeyed, depositing herself on the velvet Queen Anne, taking care to cross her ankles and keep her hands neatly folded in her lap.
"I was wondering why you had not called," the duchess said, her eyes--blue like Northcott's--dancing with merriment, "Until I recalled that I am a duchess and that no one calls on me unless explicitly summoned with an exact time and date. I must commend your social nous, my dear."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Mary replied, feeling a prickle of guilt for taking praise for something quite accidental. In the excitement of all that had been happening, Mary had forgotten her fleeting meeting with the duchess, though she did have the "social nous" not to reveal this. The Dowager Duchess, Mary guessed, was not a woman who would take being forgotten well.
"Now," the duchess continued, as a stream of maids bearing trays of tea and cake filed into the room, "I want to learn all about you, Miss Mifford. I am most curious to learn about the young lady who has rendered my dear Henry so smitten."
It took Mary a moment to realise that the Henry to whom she referred was Northcott. That the duke had a given name had never occurred to Mary, though now that she knew it, she found that she much preferred it to Northcott. Henry was a charming moniker; strong and solid, but with a hint of sweetness--quite like the duke himself, if Mary was honest. This thought led Mary to reminisce about the kiss which they had shared the night before, which had certainly been sweet, she thought dreamily.
"My dear?"
The duchess' voice cut through Mary's dazed recollection of the passionate kiss she had shared with Northcott, and she dragged her attention back to the room. The maids had set out tea in dainty china cups upon the table, alongside plates of iced-fancies, sticky currant buns, and rout cake.
It was enough to feed an army, though Mary noted that Her Grace took only a sliver of rout cake, and she followed suit. It would not do for the duchess to report back to her son that Miss Mifford was a glutton--though if left alone for even a second in the room, Mary did plan to tuck an iced fancy into her pocket for later.
"Yes," the duchess began, as she lifted a cup of tea to her lips, "My son is quite smitten with you and, not to be gauche, I can see why."
"Oh, he is not smitten," Mary replied modestly, "I swear he is not, Your Grace. He is merely being attentive to the duties of his seat and I am grateful for his help."
"His duties," Her Grace gave what sounded like a snort of incredulity, "My dear, my son has many duties, and I can inform them that he has never attended to them as faithfully as he has attended to you. I have not seen him so happy in years and it is you who must take the credit. Now, tell me how you first met. I always find that it's best to start at the very beginning."
Mary tried not to wince as she recalled her disastrous first encounter with the duke. How could she explain to Her Grace that the first time that she had met Northcott, she had lobbed a missile at his head? Her Grace might then, Mary thought wildly, deduce that Northcott's interest in her was due only to concussion--and she might very well be right.
Despite her shame, Mary could not help but picture the scene; the duke peering in the window of the rectory, Mary picking up a stone to gallantly defend Mr Parsims' property, the sound of shouting coming from within.
That was it!
Mary's eyes flew open, her mouth an "O" of surprise as realisation dawned on her.
"Are you alright, dear?" the duchess questioned, looking worried, "Is it the rout cake? Cook is rather frugal with the butter; I had hoped to entice that French chef at The King's Head to prepare our pastries, but then he went and got himself murdered by that awful Mr Fairweather."
"Mr Fairweather didn't kill anyone," Mary replied, jumping from her seat, "It wasn't him at all. Excuse me, please, I have to go. Oh! I hope I'm not too late."
Mary did not glance back as she fled the room, though she was certain that the duchess was furious at her abrupt departure; one did not remove oneself from a duchess' presence unless one had been dismissed. Mary, however, had no time to care for social strictures as she raced through the entrance hall, past the butler, and out into the courtyard. Mercifully, the footman was still standing outside holding onto Daisy's reins, his face a picture of annoyance.
"My apologies, Miss," he grumbled, as Mary approached, "The groomsmen are tardy today, as they always are when there is inclement weather."
"Doesn't matter, never mind," Mary parroted, snatching the reins from his hands, "I'm in a rush."
"It's raining," the footman protested, "There's a terrible storm coming, Miss."
Mary did not listen to his words of caution. She flicked the reins, urged Daisy into a brisk trot--her fastest pace--and hared off down the driveway. At the gates, she saw Dr Bates approaching from the direction of Plumpton, but she did not stop to chat. She veered out onto the road, heading in the opposite direction, heedless of anything else except snaring the murderer.
As she drove the gig along the Bath Road, Mary chided herself for her stupidity. How on earth had she managed to overlook the very first clue presented to her? Perhaps it was because it had surfaced before Mr Parsims' murder and she had been too taken by the rector's list to recall it. Though the list itself had been a clue, but Mary and Northcott had been too blind to see it.
Canet. Walker. Wickling. Fairweather.
Four names, each with no prefix; though Mary and Northcott had seen fit to ascribe one themselves--the wrong one.
Mary was shivering now and soaked to the bone, but she urged Daisy onward, hoping against hope that she had not missed her opportunity. As she approached the Hangman's Bridge, which crossed the River Churn at its widest point, she spotted a figure halfway across it.
"Mrs Fairweather," Mary called out into the rain, "Stop!"
As Mary approached the bridge, Daisy gave a whinny of distress; the old girl was taken out mostly for pleasant jaunts and was obviously frightened by the turgid swell of the river as it gushed past.
"You stay here," Mary cautioned the mare, as she leapt from the gig to continue on foot. It would not do to risk Daisy rearing in fright and throwing Mary into the water, nor was there much fear that she would wander if left alone, for Daisy rarely moved unless under duress.
"Mrs Fairweather," Mary shouted again, as she raced over the bridge, and the figure ahead of her stopped and turned.
"It was you," Mary panted, as she finally reached her, "It was you who killed Mr Parsims and Monsieur Canet."
"Well," Mrs Fairweather smiled, "Aren't you the clever girl?"
It was not a compliment. The seamstress' eyes were dark with malice and the smile upon her lips was mocking. Fear engulfed Mary, for in her haste to catch Mrs Fairweather before she caught the stagecoach, she had not planned what she would do once she had caught up with her.
Mary was now acutely aware that she was now alone with a woman who had killed not once, but twice. Not only that, a woman who appeared completely deranged with anger.
"Mr Parsims discovered your affair and was bribing you," Mary stated, hoping that by speaking she might afford herself some time to plan an escape, "You tolerated it well enough until the night of the assembly, when he went too far in front of your husband. You were enraged; you waited for him to leave, followed him to the bridge, and battered his skull i
n with a rock."
"So what if I did?" Mrs Fairweather hissed, "That weasel deserved to die screaming for all the anguish he caused me. He knew how I suffered from my husband's violent tempers, yet he sought to further my pain."
"And Monsieur Canet," Mary continued, "He was bribing him as well."
"Guillame said that it was our affair which Parsims had discovered," Mrs Fairweather spat, her face now contorted in rage, "Though, thanks to you, I found out that he had been dipping his wick into two pots of ink. When I discovered that he wanted to marry that blowse after swearing that he would run away with me, I was fit to kill."
"Which you did," Mary pointed out, "You did so easily because you realised that Monsieur had played you like a fiddle; he persuaded you to talk your husband into going into the poaching business with him, then when he'd had enough of that and had found a more legitimate source of income, he decided he would leave you both in the lurch."
"Another dreadful man, another just killing," Mrs Fairweather shrugged, her plump mouth twisted into a snarl, "If you are trying to make me feel guilty for what I have done, Miss Mifford, then I'm afraid that you have failed. Your prattling has merely reminded me of why I did it."
"And your husband?" Mary challenged, glad to finally see a flicker of uncertainty in the seamstress' cold eyes, "Does he deserve to hang for two murders that he did not commit?"
"He deserves to hang for promising me the world and failing to deliver," Mrs Fairweather cried, as tears began to pour from her eyes, "I was happy in Bath when he met me; I had a business, I had friends, I had a life. He swept me off my feet and told me that I would be a lady of leisure if I married him, then brought me here to this God-awful village and would not let me step one foot outside the door."
"But he does not deserve to die," Mary argued, taking a step toward Mrs Fairweather as she spoke. The seamstress was no longer angry, she was paralysed by grief. Her body shivered and shook as she sobbed for the life she felt had been stolen from her; she looked so wretched that it was impossible to believe she was capable of murder.
"Come, Mrs Fairweather," Mary said, reaching out a hand to grasp the woman's arm, "Come back with me to Plumpton and we shall make things right."
Mary's touch seemed to rouse Mrs Fairweather from her self-pity. Her eyes flew open and she stared down at Mary's hand on her sleeve, as though it burned her skin.
"I'll never go back to Plumpton," she snarled, as she grabbed Mary and dragged her toward the wall of the bridge.
Mary, who had been taken unaware by the sudden show of strength, was momentarily too shocked to act. It was only when she realised Mrs Fairweather's intent that she began to struggle in earnest.
"No," she cried, as the seamstress dragged her with Herculean power toward the bridge's low stone wall, "Stop."
Below, the Churn gushed past in a roar, its waters swollen and angry. The wind howled, the rain lashed down, and Mary realised that she was about to become Mrs Fairweather's next victim.
Chapter Twelve
Miss Mifford was in great danger and Henry had to save her from a fate worse than death.
This was the thought that ran through Henry's mind when he called at Primrose Cottage on his way back from Stroud, only to be told by Jane Mifford that her sister had been summoned to tea with his mother.
"She never said," Henry murmured in horror, as Miss Jane Mifford finished speaking. Why had Mary not told him last night, he wondered, then he recalled that he had kept her lips occupied with kissing.
As Henry had ridden at breakneck speed from Stroud, he was already perspiring lightly from exertion but this news--coupled with the memory of kissing Miss Mifford on this very step--sent Henry into an actual sweat. He reached into his breast pocket to search for a handkerchief, only to find that there was none there.
"Here," Jane, noting his distress, reached into her pocket and extracted one, which she offered him with a smile.
"My thanks," Henry said, as he mopped at his brow, "I shall have to have words with my valet; this is the second time in two days he has forgotten it."
"Heavens," Jane replied, sounding more amused than empathetic.
"Oh, how I suffer," Henry offered a quick laugh, as he realised that his complaint had made him sound terribly top-lofty. As he had finished with the handkerchief, he offered it back to Jane, but she refused with a shake of her head.
"It actually belongs to you," she said. Henry glanced down to see that it was the same hankie that he had stolen from Monsieur Canet's room, and he frowned in confusion.
"Mary went to return it to Mrs Walker," Jane explained, "But she said that it was not she who had given it to Monsieur. I'm afraid it rather upset her, for it does look like a lover's token."
"It does," Henry frowned, then recalled that his own love might currently be suffering her own upset at his mother's hands.
"My thanks for your help," Henry said, offering a slight bow to Jane, "I'd best hurry back to the manor."
"Yes, it wouldn't do for the cavalry to be late," he heard Jane say as he dashed down the garden path to untether his steed.
As Henry took off at a breakneck pace for Northcott Manor, the sky which had been threatening rain all day made good on its promise. The heavens opened up, soaking Henry to the bone in mere minutes, and it was a very sodden Duke of Northcott who arrived at the manor.
"I shall have the footmen prepare water for a hot bath," Bentley, the butler, said as Henry came dashing through the door.
"A hot bath?" Henry questioned; he had no time for bathing.
"Your Grace, you are..." Bentley gave a discreet cough, "...rather wet."
Henry caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the entrance hall's many gilded mirrors. Bentley, as ever, had been a paragon of tact and discretion--Henry looked like a wet dog. Possibly, he also smelled like one too. He could not meet Miss Mifford in such a state, though he also felt that he could not wait a second longer to see her.
Not just to rescue her from Cecilia's interfering, but to see her face, her smile, her beautiful lips.
"When you are finished," Bentley continued, unaware that his master was only half-present, "Dr Bates is waiting for a word with you regarding Monsieur Canet. I had him put in the Yellow Parlour."
The Yellow Parlour was the room which Bentley assigned to those guests he deemed not good enough to wait in the Blue Parlour.
"I hope you offered him something hot," Henry said, with a glance out the window at the storm raging outside.
"Your Grace," Bentley looked pained.
"Excuse me," Henry apologised with a smile, "Of course you did. And Miss Mifford? Is she in the Blue Parlour?"
"Miss Mifford?" the butler frowned with distaste, "She is no longer here, Your Grace. She leapt up half-way through tea with Her Grace and fled the premises. The maids assure me that your mother was most perplexed."
Mary had left abruptly? Henry frowned, for Miss Mifford was many things--a trifle silly, a little giddy, unendingly earnest--but she was not rude. Something must have happened, he decided, setting off to the Blue Parlour in search of his mama.
"Hn-gry."
As Henry opened the door of the parlour, his mother leapt to her feet. Her mouth was filled with cake, though despite this she still tried to speak.
"Ig-Wagn-iffifin."
"Chew," Henry commanded, "And for heaven's sake, don't choke. I need you alive to explain yourself."
"I wasn't interfering," Cecilia said, when she had finally swallowed the cake, "Well, I suppose I was a little. I wanted to see what this Miss Mifford was like, Henry, since you have been so secretive. At first, I thought her a real diamond of the first water--she passed the cake challenge most admirably."
"The cake challenge?" Henry allowed himself to be momentarily distracted.
"Yes, you set out plates and plates of yummy treats for your callers, to test their self-restraint--no one likes a glutton, well a public one at least--and Miss Mifford handled herself most admirably."
"Then what happened?" Henry pressed, too concerned about Mary to marvel at the length to which society ladies went to torture one another.
"Then, I bid her tell me how you both met," Cecilia allowed a frown to mar her features, "For you were not very forthcoming with information and I am always taken by tales of a charming first meeting between sweethearts."
Henry, recalling the knock he took to his head, was not entirely certain that charming was the word he would use to describe his first encounter with Miss Mifford.
"I told her to start at the very beginning," Cecilia continued, "And then she went rather strange."
"Strange how?"
"A little dazed for a moment, then a look crossed her face--the same one your father used to make when he had found something that he had lost--and she said that Mr Fairweather didn't kill anyone. Then she rushed from the room. Honestly, Henry, she is very pretty, but I do think she might be a tad deranged. Though, I suppose, there is a history of insanity in the family tree and she's not so mad that she's fit for Bedlam and if you were to marry her, I could have a grandchild by spring."
Usually, Henry might have been amused to listen to his mother talk herself in circles, but not today. His mind was elsewhere, as he tried to fathom what it was that had occurred to Mary and why it had sent her off in such a hurry.
If Mr Fairweather was not guilty of the murders, then who on earth did Mary think was?
Outside in the entrance hall came the sound of a man irritably arguing with Bentley, which distracted Henry from his musings.
"Yes, I know he's a duke, and that he's very important, but I have patients to call on," Henry heard Dr Bates bluster, "Will you please give him this and tell him that it is the knife which I pulled out of Monsieur Canet's neck yesterday evening."
"Splendid," Bentley replied, his voice as pleasant as it would be if Bates had said he was handing him a quill.
Henry, who had heard enough, strode from the parlour to the hall to take a look at the knife.
"Your Grace," Dr Bates started at the sight of Henry, his bluster fading, "I just called to drop you in the knife which was used to kill Canet--well, it is a material cutter, if truth be told . Mr Bentley did say to wait, in case you wished to discuss matters over a brandy--I'm sure you have quite the stock--and I had said that I needed to be on my way, but seeing as you're here..."
A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford (Regency Murder and Marriage Book 1) Page 15