Page 34 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
Chapter Nine
After His Grace had galloped off, Mary had spent a few minutes mooning over him, like a smitten green-girl. She had never walked alone with a gentleman before--in fact, she had never been alone with any gentleman before--and she was astounded at how easy it had been.
She had not felt nervous, silly, or on edge in His Grace's company. To walk alongside him had felt perfectly natural, as though she had been walking with Jane or Emily. Though, of course, Jane or Emily did not unleash swarms of butterflies in her stomach when they looked at her like Northcott did.
It had been touching, as well, to learn that Northcott was more than his title; he was a man who lived, breathed, and hurt just like any other. Mary was certain that she had offered him wise counsel; men were forever bottling up their feelings, not realising that by doing so said feelings would ferment within that bottle until so much pressure built up that the cork popped off in a messy climax. Not that she would have used that analogy with Northcott, not after her disastrous "better out than in" comment, which could have only put him in mind of flatulence.
Mary blushed, squirming with embarrassment at the memory. Northcott had been kind and had carried the conversation elsewhere, to spare her blushes.
The only disappointment had come at the end of their walk; for a fleeting moment, when Northcott's eyes had flashed with what Mary had thought was desire; she had believed he was about to kiss her. The moment had passed without a kiss and Mary had been forced to accept that it was not desire which had caused Northcott's eyes to burn so bright. Perhaps it had just been indigestion, she decided, feeling most foolish for her incorrect interpretation.
The duke does not think of you that way, Mary reminded herself, as she set off along the path which Northcott had just disappeared down. He simply thought of her as an accomplice to his investigation--and not a very important one at that.
Feeling a little dejected, Mary continued her walk, absently admiring the ferns, sweet woodruff, and foxgloves which charmingly decorated the path. The trees grew thinner and Lower Plumpton came into view, looking charming as ever in the soft summer sun.
Sunlight glistened on the river as Mary passed over the bridge, and the flowers in the window boxes of the cottages were bright as any jewel. Plumpton was a treasure, Mary thought happily, and it galled her to think that Mr Parsims had tarnished its light with his nefarious deeds.
The matter of his list of victims pressed on Mary's mind. Northcott was certain that Monsieur Canet was guilty, and although Mary did not wish to question the wisdom of a duke, she wondered if there was a chance that he might be wrong.
Even if he was right and Monsieur Canet was guilty, Mary still felt a burning desire to talk with Mr Parsims' victims and let them know that they had not suffered alone.
With her mind now set, Mary squared her shoulders and set off for Mrs Walker's cottage, which stood on the easterly side of the village square.
"Miss Mifford, what a pleasant surprise!"
The young widow offered Mary a cheerful greeting as she opened the door, her eyes bright with joy that had little to do with Mary's arrival.
"Do come in," Mrs Walker said, ushering Mary inside, "You called at a most fortuitous time--I have just made a cake."
Mary followed Mrs Walker inside, down a small, neat hallway to a parlour room which was decorated in varying shades of pastel. The furniture was a little old--the velvet chaise which Mary sat on had been patched in different places--but feminine touches and an air of warmth gave the room a charming feel.
A bunch of hot-house flowers--such a luxury for Plumpton--stood in a vase by the window. Mary made suitable noises about their beauty and Mrs Walker beamed with happiness.
"They were from a friend, who purchased them in Stroud," she said, lifting a hand to touch her cheek, "I have put bicarbonate of soda in the water, in the hope that it will prolong their life a little. Now, let me fetch you some cake. Tea?"
"Yes, please," Mary called after Mrs Walker, who had already bustled from the room.
There was an air of energy and jubilation about Mrs Walker and Mary wondered if perhaps the widow was celebrating. Though the room was cosy and warm, it was obvious to a discerning eye that Mrs Walker was not a wealthy woman; who knew what anguish Mr Parsims had caused by extracting coin from a woman who obviously did not have much to spare. To know that Mr Parsims was now buried beneath a mound of dirt was probably a solace to she who had suffered at his hands.
"Here we are," Mrs Walker called, as she returned to the parlour carrying a tray laden with tea and cake. Mary, who was very much partial to a good sponge, tried not to look overly enthusiastic as Mrs Walker handed her a plate with a large wedge. Two buttery yellow sponges sandwiched a layer of clotted cream and strawberry jam and as Mary took a forkful, a sigh of happiness escaped her lips.
"Heaven," she declared to Mrs Walker, who preened with delight.
"I got the recipe from a friend," Mrs Walker confided, her cheeks rosy with happiness.
Both ladies munched silently for a few minutes, though as the silence began to stretch Mary realised that Mrs Walker was waiting for her to explain the reason for her visit. The cake now felt rather dry in Mary's mouth and she gave a cough as some crumbs stuck in her throat.
"Well," Mary said, after taking a sip of tea to clear them, "I suppose you're wondering why I called."
"Is it to do with the Ladies' Society?" Mrs Walker asked, her brow marred with a slight frown, "Mrs Canards has called once or twice, asking if I would like to join, but I'm afraid at the moment that it is impossible. I am too busy with the house and Benjamin to manage organising village fetes and assembly dances."
As ever, Mrs Canards' ability to vex was astonishing. Mrs Walker's previously jubilant air had disappeared, replaced by slight aggravation. Mary did not doubt that Mrs Canards had tried to corral Mrs Walker into helping more than once, and probably not very politely.
"No, it has nothing to do with the Ladies' Society," Mary assured her, and Mrs Walker looked visibly relieved, "It has to do with Mr Parsims."
At the mention of the late rector's name, Mrs Walker paled. Her eyes shifted from Mary's and she looked so uncomfortable that Mary almost wished that she had left well enough alone.
"It has been discovered that Mr Parsims was bribing some of his parishioners for his own financial gain," Mary ploughed on, determined to finish what she had started, "And that he did the same thing in his last parish, which is why he was removed from his post."
