A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,14

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