A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone
Chapter One
Miss Mary Mifford held her head high as she made her way through the village of Plumpton. As she walked, she tried not to imagine people whispering about her behind the leaded windows of the houses which lined the main street, but it was somewhat difficult.
Plumpton, a small village nestled in the Cotswold Hills, was a place where everyone knew everyone else's business—and gossiped about it incessantly.
Having herself given many afternoons over to dissecting the goings-on of the villagers, Mary was depressingly aware that her return from the London Season—without a ring—would be the cause of much chin-wagging. She now rued her own indulgence in idle chatter, for despite being the current victim of the town tabbies, she was not so innocent a victim that she could feign moral outrage.
Think of it as a lesson, Mary told herself, as she crossed the footbridge over the slow-moving stream, which divided Upper Plumpton from Lower Plumpton. There was not much discernible difference between the two sides of the village, both being abundant in picturesque thatched-roof cottages built from Cotswolds' stone. The lands which surrounded the upper end of Plumpton, however, belonged to the aptly named Lord Crabb, while at the lower end, the village gave way to the fields of the Duke of Northcott's estate.
One of his many estates, Mary corrected herself; for the duke owned half of England, and some of Scotland too, and was rarely in residence, despite Northcott being his ducal seat.
Mary continued onward, willing herself to think on the absent duke rather than her disastrous season which, when coupled with her twenty-second birthday, had surely marked her as the town spinster.
As the eldest of the four Mifford sisters, Mary's only duty had been to ensure that she made a good match and married quickly so that her younger siblings might then be set loose upon the bachelors of the Cotswolds. At first, it had seemed that Mary would succeed, as for two years she was courted by William Buck, a barrister from nearby Evesham. Mary had been greatly disappointed, however, when after many promises of marriage, young William had returned from a sojourn to Bath with a new wife who was not Mary.
Heartbroken, Mary had allowed her mama to convince her to attempt a season in town. Mrs Mifford's three sisters had all married well, and were suitably placed to ensure that Mary would be seen by only the most eligible men in London. Indeed, the most eligible men in London had seen her, but none had taken an interest, given her age and lack of endowments. Once the season had ended, Mary had returned to Plumpton, her confidence dented, only to then find that her mama had told anyone who would listen—and even those who would rather have not—that Mary was sure to return home with a ring on her finger.
It was, Mary reflected ruefully, a definite case of insult to injury.
Still, she was a practical girl, and if she was doomed to be cast into the role of the village spinster, then she would do her utmost to play the part to perfection.
Spinsters were, Mary knew from all the books she had read, pernickety, fussy souls, who believed themselves to be the bastion of all that was good, charitable, and rule-abiding. They abhorred gaiety, vanity, and—most of all—men. While following the first two rules sounded rather dull, after her experience with William, Mary was very much enthused about the latter.
Her determination to be the most accomplished spinster Plumpton had ever seen was the reason why Mary was presently traipsing through Lower Plumpton, under a hot summer sun.
Mrs Canards, a devoted member of Plumpton Parish Ladies' Society, had come down with an earache and had cried off attending that afternoon's meeting. Under usual circumstances, Mary would have rejoiced alongside her sisters at the gossiping-dragon's absence from their gathering, but the new Mary had instead taken on a facade of concern for Mrs Canards.
"The poor dear," she had said, as she finished reading the missive Mrs Canards had sent, "I shall take it upon myself to brew her a nostrum and drop it down to her before lunch."
"And why on earth would you do that?" Mr Mifford had asked, drawing his bushy brows together in bewilderment.
"Because it is the charitable thing to do, Papa," Mary had retorted, with a pointed glare to her father, who, as vicar of Plumpton Parish, really ought to have known better.
"I wouldn't waste charity on Mrs Canards," Mr Mifford had replied mildly, "Nor