Page 10 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"It's not valid for this assembly," Mrs Canards replied, her loud voice carrying, "I don't know if you heard, but we are expecting the duke this evening. I cannot be expected to permit just anyone to enter."
"I'm not just anyone," Mr Fairweather responded, refusing to be cowed, "I am a paid-up subscriber, and I'll not have you lording it over me as though you are my better."
"I am your better," Mrs Canards snapped, her face flushing red with indignation.
Beside Mary, Mr Mifford gave a sigh of annoyance--he did detest having to referee parish squabbles--before he elbowed his way to the front of the queue.
"That's quite enough, Mrs Canards," Mr Mifford said, "We shall not refuse entry to anyone with a subscription. My apologies, Mr Fairweather, do continue inside."
The Fairweathers--he tall and dark, she petite and flame-haired in a dress with an elaborately embroidered bodice--thanked Mr Mifford and marched past Mrs Canards with their heads held high.
"That was brave of Mrs Canards, to speak to Mr Fairweather so," Emily whispered to Mary, "For I've heard it said that he has a ferocious temper."
Mary too, had heard of the farmer's famed furies, and the jealous way in which he guarded his beautiful wife. She had been a seamstress in Bath, and he had lured her away to the countryside, only to now live in fear that she would grow bored and leave him. Given the way that Mr Fairweather had roared at Mrs Canards—who, though irritating, was elderly, and a lady--Mary could well believe that the stories she had heard about his frequent fistfights were true and she felt a jolt of pity for poor Mrs Fairweather to be stuck with such a brute.
The couple ahead of the Mifford family moved forward to purchase their tickets from Mrs Canards. They were well dressed, though not ostentatiously so, and spoke with well-mannered accents.
"Six-pence each," Mrs Canards declared, having decided that the pair passed muster enough to be allowed entry.
The gentleman paid for the tickets and gave Mrs Canards a bright smile.
"Thank you," he rumbled, "I am Mr Hargreaves, and this is my wife, Catherine; we are visiting from Abingdon. We only arrived at The King's Head this morning, where we heard about the assembly. Imagine, a duke! What a wonderful start to our week."
"I don't need your life story," Mary heard Mrs Canards mumble, as the gentleman ushered his wife inside, though thankfully Mary seemed to be the only one who had overheard her.
"The Miffords, how splendid," Mrs Canards said dryly, as Mrs Mifford handed over the family's voucher for inspection.
"Has His Grace arrived?" Mrs Mifford asked dismissively, matching Mrs Canards' rudeness with some of her own.
"Not yet, but I don't expect him until after eight; you know how dukes are," Mrs Canards, who had never met a duke in her life, replied airily.
Mary noted her Mama's nostrils flare slightly with rage; she abhorred condescension unless it was she who was practising it.
"Lord Crabb has also thought to grace us with his presence," Mrs Canards added, "Judging by his outfit, it has been a good half-century since he attended a dance."
The Miffords took their leave of the awful woman and made their way up the stairs to the assembly room. They entered to find the room looking the same as always, though its occupants had never looked so clean.
Each man was freshly shaven, their faces pink from the exertion with which they had been scrubbed with lye and water. The ladies all wore their best dresses, a strange mixture of fashions old and new. At the top of the room, in the seats Mrs Canards had insisted be given over to those in possession of a title, sat Mary's great-uncle, Lord Crabb.
Mary bit down on her lip to keep from giggling at the sight of him, though Jane was not so restrained.
"Faith," she giggled, elbowing Mary in the ribs, "He looks like a French king."
Indeed, there were some similarities to be found between Lord Crabb and the Dauphins of dear France. Upon his head, he wore a powdered wig, curly at the top and drawn into a pony-tail behind. His face was also powdered, a garish white, which clashed with the gold and pink brocade coat he wore over breeches of the same colour. While tonight he looked ridiculous, Mary did not doubt that at least fifty years ago he would have been regarded as a fashionable dandy.
"Hush," Mrs Mifford whispered, casting them both a glare, "I won't listen to you making fun of our dear Lord Crabb."
Dear Lord Crabb?
Mary blinked in confusion at this term of endearment, for her Mama found the viscount as cantankerous as everyone else. Though Lord Crabb had bestowed the living of Plumpton upon his niece's husband, he had only done so to vex his brother, who had wished to forbid the union. There was very little familial affection between uncle and niece. In fact, the only times that Lord Crabb appeared happy in the Miffords' company were those when he retold the tale of how he had undermined his own brother's authority, which, decades later, still gave him great satisfaction.
"Come," Mrs Mifford said, firmly, "We must offer our greetings to your sweet great-uncle."
Something was amiss, Mary thought, as her mother frogmarched them all toward the viscount. Mrs Mifford had a smile affixed to her face, though it was so forced that Mary could see the muscles twitching in her jaw.
"Uncle," Mrs Mifford cried gaily as they reached the viscount, "How lovely to see you."
"Balderdash," Lord Crabb wheezed, "You are not happy to see me; you're only happy that I might serve to introduce you to Northcott."
