A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,56

and her name in the same sentence, that Mary realised what was amiss; the whole town had seen her on the green with Northcott. They had witnessed him singling her out from the crowd, talking to her in a whisper, and taking her hand in his--and they had obviously drawn their own conclusions.

Mary could have wept; she had lied to Jane to keep her from becoming excited on Mary's behalf, but she could not persuade the whole town to her side. Worse; whispers would soon reach her mother's ears, who would then fan the fires of rumour and intrigue like a bellows.

And when Northcott disappeared back to London, whilst Mary was left alone and single as ever, the whole town would know her disappointment.

Again.

The only thing which kept Mary from drowning in a well of self-pity was seeing how upset Mrs Walker was when she opened the door to Mary's knock.

Some people have real troubles, Mary chided herself; there were far greater woes in life than losing face.

Mary followed Mrs Walker into the kitchen, where she set about making the poor woman some tea.

"Thank you," Mrs Walker sniffled, "Please excuse my tears, I'm afraid that I did not get much sleep last night and am a little overwrought."

"Hush," Mary comforted her, "You must not apologise for crying; it's only natural after such a great loss."

Her kind words sent Mrs Walker off into another bout of tears, during which Mary could do no more than pat her arm and whisper "there, there". Once she had cried herself out, Mrs Walker fell into reminiscing about Monsieur Canet who, by the sounds of things, had swept her off her feet with his Gallic charm.

"I have had so much good news of late that it was foolish of me not to expect something terrible to happen," Mrs Walker sighed, "First, my aunt told me that she was leaving the farm to me in her will, and not my cousin George as was expected. Then Guillame asked me to marry him. Oh! I thought that finally life was taking pity on me."

Mary wished she was not so cynical, but as Mrs Walker explained her run of good luck, she longed to question in what order these two events had taken place. From the way Mrs Walker had told it, her relationship--or affair, as her Mama might call it--had been a secretive one; had Monsieur Canet only proposed when he learned that Mrs Walker was set to inherit her aunt's sizable farm?

Mary hated herself for it, but she could not help but feel it was true. Her father had said that a woman who falls for a rake once is a sure target for a second one, and Mary was inclined to believe him. Even after her unfortunate affair with her soldier, poor Mrs Walker had not learned that it was always best to be suspicious of charming men.

"I have brought something for you," Mary said, as a means to distract herself from her mean thoughts of Monsieur Canet. She reached into her skirt pocket, fished out the handkerchief, and handed it to Mrs Walker.

"His Grace found it in Monsieur Canet's room last night," she said, as Mrs Walker stared at it blankly, "He wanted it returned to you, as it is obviously sentimental."

"I've never seen it before in my life."

Both women stared down at the hankie, upon which the initials G.C. had been stitched, encircled by flowers and hearts. Mary felt her stomach churn, as she realised that she may have made a bad situation far worse for poor Mrs Walker.

"Perhaps his mother made it for him?" Mary suggested brightly.

"She's been dead thirty years," Mrs Walker replied, pushing the handkerchief back across the table to Mary.

From another room there came a terrible clatter, accompanied by the sound of a child's wailing.

"That will be Benjamin," Mrs Walker gave a sigh of relief at the distraction, "I must go check on him."

"I will show myself out," Mary replied, "Do call on me if you need anything, Mrs Walker."

Outside, Mary stuffed the offending handkerchief back into her pocket, feeling like a fool. She had wanted to console poor Mrs Walker, but she had only brought her further worry.

Mary kept her head down as she made her way back up High Street, unable to weather any more stares. She soon realised that she needn't have worried about anyone staring at her, for as she passed the haberdashery, she saw that another poor soul had become the object of the