A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford - Claudia Stone Page 0,57

town's scrutiny.

Mrs Fairweather exited the shop, with a shawl thrown over her auburn tresses. She looked straight ahead as she walked, seemingly deaf to the whispers which followed her.

It was not fair, Mary thought as she spotted Mrs Canards glaring openly at the poor woman, that a wife should suffer for her husband's crimes. Recalling Sarah's public display of loyalty to her, Mary rushed after Mrs Fairweather, hoping that the whole village would learn about it soon.

"Mrs Fairweather," Mary called, slightly out of breath as she reached her.

The seamstress turned at the sound of her name, her eyes wary, like a frightened animal.

"I just wanted to say that I am sorry for what has happened with your husband," Mary offered, hoping that her voice would carry over to where Mrs Canards stood, "But you are not to feel alone; the whole town knows that it was your husband and not you who committed those terrible crimes."

From behind Mary came a burst of incredulous laughter and she did not have to turn her head to guess who it had come from.

Mrs Fairweather shot Mary a rueful smile, as she shrugged her shoulders in defeat.

"Thank you, for your kind words, Miss Mifford," she said, "But I am afraid that you might be the only person in Plumpton who believes that. Not that it matters; I am taking the stagecoach to Bristol this afternoon. If you will excuse me, I only came to town for some rope for my portmanteau, and I must pack quickly for the coach is expected at the turnpike by three."

With that, Mrs Fairweather turned on her heel and departed, not once glancing back at Mary, or Plumpton, as she walked.

"Folks like her have no appreciation of kindness," Mrs Canards called out to Mary as she passed.

"I doubt you have any experience of offering anyone kindness," Mary retorted, under her breath. Had she been braver she might have said her words aloud, but it was Mrs Fairweather who was leaving Plumpton, not Mary, and it would make the meetings of the Ladies' Society unbearable if she were to start a war of words with Mrs Canards.

Mary felt thoroughly wretched when she arrived back to Primrose Cottage. It was not fair that the only people to suffer were poor Mrs Walker and Mrs Fairweather, while people like Mrs Canards remained unscathed.

"How did it go?" Jane queried, as Mary entered the drawing room and flopped herself down on the chaise longue.

"Terribly," Mary sighed, before she explained the saga with the handkerchief to her sister.

"Perhaps it is a token from an old love?" Jane said, as she came over to inspect the linen, "Though it does look rather new."

"A little too new," Mary agreed sourly.

Any more talk of Mrs Walker or Monsieur Canet was brought to a halt by the arrival of Eudora. She was again wearing a pair of spectacles, through which she blinked owlishly at Mary.

"What are you doing here?" she queried of Mary.

"I live here," Mary reminded her, "Although you appear to have been stricken with a case of acute short-sightedness, I fail to believe that you don't recognise me."

"Of course I recognise you," Eudora replied, in a tone of exasperation which matched Mary's to perfection, "I was just wondering why you are sitting in the parlour, when the Duchess of Northcott is expecting you to arrive for tea at any moment."

As ever, when conversing with her youngest sister, Mary felt herself overwhelmed with confusion.

"Why on earth should she be expecting me?" Mary queried, as a feeling of anxiety began to grow inside her.

"A footman called yesterday with an invitation for you," Eudora answered, in the tone that one might use with a child, "He wanted an answer straight away, so I told him that you would, of course, attend."

"And did you not think to tell me that I had accepted this invitation?" Mary's voice rose several octaves in her panic.

"I told Emily to tell you, in case I forgot," Eudora was exasperated, "And it was lucky that I did, for with all last night's excitement, it completely left my head."

"How is it lucky, when she forgot too?" Mary wailed, dashing over to the mirror to check her appearance.

Jane materialised at her shoulder, tucking in stray strands of hair, before brushing down the back of her skirts with a firm hand--which probably did very little aesthetically but which served to soothe Mary's nerves a little.

"Change your shoes," Jane ordered, "I shall ready the gig."

"Should I do anything?" Eudora asked,