A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,45

sent Mrs Fairweather her way, in order to interrogate the seamstress on what she knew of her husband's inclusion on Mr Parsims' list of victims. But as Mrs Fairweather lifted her face, the shawl she wore around her head slipped a little to reveal that her cheek was swollen and bruised.

"Oh," Mary could not help but exclaim, "You're hurt."

"This?" Mrs Fairweather lifted a hand to her cheek, her voice flat and devoid of any emotion, "It's nothing. I simply walked into the door."

Mary was old enough to know that Mrs Fairweather was lying, and why. Marriage was an institution played out behind closed doors; for some women it was their haven, for others their hell. There was little that Mary could do to help Mrs Fairweather, but she would tell her father what she had witnessed, in the hope that as vicar he might be able to intervene somehow.

"Forgive me for bumping into you," Mrs Fairweather continued, adjusting her shawl, "I was rushing to return Mrs Wickling's tablecloth, before my husband's return from Stroud."

Mary was not much superstitious, but as fate made an appearance for a second time in as many minutes, she decided she could not ignore it again.

"I was going to call on Mrs Wickling," Mary said, deciding to forgo the comfort of home for a spell longer, "I can take it to her if you wish?"

"That would be very helpful, thank you," Mrs Fairweather answered, breathing a sigh of relief, "I have been asked to make a wedding-gown as well; with the extra time, I should be able to begin cutting it."

"Oh, there's no rush on that," Mary blurted, hoping to spare Mrs Walker the expense of ruined material, "Mrs Walker and Monsieur Canet have not even had the banns read yet."

"It is not for Mrs Walker," the seamstress replied, her eyes wide with surprise, "I did not know that she and Monsieur were engaged."

"Oh," Mary could have cursed her careless tongue; she had promised Mrs Walker that she would keep one secret, only to reveal another, "Perhaps it is not known yet. Please, don't say anything to anyone."

"I promise I shall not," Mrs Fairweather grimaced and lifted a hand to her swollen cheek, "I am afraid that I don't regard news of a marriage with the same enthusiasm as others."

For a second Mary worried at how she was supposed to respond to such a statement but, luckily, Mrs Fairweather relieved her of that task.

"Thank you again for your help," the seamstress said, as she thrust the bundle she was holding into Mary's hands, "Do pass my regards onto Mrs Wickling."

Mrs Fairweather turned on her heel, scurrying away quickly toward home. Mary likewise turned and traipsed off in the opposite direction. Mrs Wickling lived in Lower Plumpton, in one of the cottages which lined the road after the bridge.

The elderly lady was in her front garden when Mary called, enthusiastically dead-heading her roses, which still held blooms so late in the season.

"Mrs Wickling," Mary hailed her from the garden gate, "Mrs Fairweather asked me to drop this into you."

Mrs Wickling turned from her rosebush, a frown marring her face. She wore a wide-brimmed bonnet, which looked decades old, to protect her face from the sun and she squinted out from under it at Mary.

"Oh, it's you, Miss Mifford," she said as she approached, "I should have known only you or one of your sisters would think it appropriate to shout in such a manner."

Mary bit her lip, as she struggled to remind herself of her quest to be a good, charitable spinster. The problem with being good, she thought with a sigh, was that it required little effort with pleasant people and buckets of effort with the not-so-pleasant ones.

"I met Mrs Fairweather on High Street and she said that she was bringing a tablecloth to you, so I volunteered to come in her stead," Mary said, thinking it best to ignore Mrs Wickling's other comment altogether.

"Does Mrs Fairweather think herself too grand to do her own deliveries?" Mrs Wickling grumbled, as she accepted the package Mary proffered.

Some people, Mary thought darkly, could never be satisfied. She was glad now that she had offered to come to Mrs Wickling's on Mrs Fairweather's behalf, for Mary was certain that the cantankerous, crabby woman would have made a hurtful remark about the bruise which marred the seamstress' cheek. And, after that, she would have gossiped about it with Mrs Canards.

"She does not think herself too grand," Mary was firm, "I