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