Page 8 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
Jane was Mary's opposite. Where Mary was fair, Jane was dark. Where Mary was neat, Jane was always in a state of disarray. Even now, the hem of her dress was stained with mud, having taken an early morning ramble through the fields, whilst her chestnut curls were worn down, tumbling wildly around her shoulders.
"You are not on the shelf," Jane retorted, ignoring the mention of her hair, "And even if you were, is it not better to be left on the shelf, rather than placed in the wrong cupboard?"
"That it is," Mary agreed, though in her heart she mourned a little. Despite having embraced spinsterhood entirely--mob-caps, reading, sniffing in disapproval at her younger sisters' antics--she still rather regretted that a husband and home were now lost to her.
The girls worked in silence for a few minutes more, until the room was returned to the state that they had found it in. Mary sighed as she tugged on her mob-cap, which had slipped as they worked. It was rather unfortunate that the uniform of a spinster was required to be so dull and cumbersome, she thought.
"Why on earth are you insisting on wearing that horrid thing?" Jane queried, as the two sisters left the hall, locking the door behind them.
"It is appropriate for a woman of my station," Mary sniffed.
"And what station is that?" Jane asked as the two girls set off toward home, "Grandmother?"
"Spinster," Mary hissed, not wishing to be overheard, "I don't know if you've realised Jane, but after my failure in London, my chances of finding a husband are now gone. I was upset, at first, but I have now decided that I will dedicate myself to making certain that a similar fate does not befall you, or any of my sisters."
"Have you gone mad?" Jane queried, her brown eyes blinking in confusion, "You might be two and twenty, but you are still the prettiest girl in Plumpton. Any man would be glad to have you as their wife."
"Alas, my ship has sailed," Mary took on a martyred tone, "But you can still set sail on the sea of life Jane, and I will help you on your journey."
For a moment, Jane was silent. Mary had thought that her sister was trying to compose an adequate speech of thanks for her sacrifice, but instead, she gave a growl of irritation.
"You take everything to the extreme," Jane huffed, as they crossed across the village green, "When an idea pops into your head, you are blind to anything else."
"I am not."
"Do you not recall when you read in the Belle Assemblée that a smidgen of goose-fat around the eyes at night might prevent wrinkles and decided it would work better if you slathered yourself from top to toe in the stuff?"
Mary flushed at the memory; no matter how much she had bathed, the neighbours' dogs had still followed her everywhere for a week.
"Or when Colin Frampton declared his preference for foreign ladies, and you adopted a French accent and insisted we address you as Mathilde?"
"Really, Jane," Mary huffed, "I was thirteen at the time, and not very clever--as evidenced by my thinking Colin Frampton was a boy worth impressing."
That was the worst thing about sisters, Mary thought ruefully, they knew all your past mistakes and were always more than happy to remind you of them, dare you forget.
They had just turned off at Bottom Lane to take a short cut back to the house, and Mary was about to argue that Jane was too young to understand--the eldest sister's ultimate weapon in an argument--when the sound of raised voices from behind a garden wall caused her to pause.
Two men were having a furious argument in the rear kitchen gardens of The King's Head Coaching Inn. Because of the high wall, it was impossible to see who it was, but as one of the men had a French accent, it was easy to guess his identity. The foreign population of Plumpton was numbered at one; Guillaume Canet, the coaching inn's renowned chef.
"I will not stand for eet anymore," he roared, as Mary and Jane came to a halt to listen, "Do you 'ear me?"
Whoever he was talking to replied in such a low voice that it was impossible for Mary to even guess who it was--the only thing that was obvious, from the deep pitch, was that he was a male. Whatever it was that the man had said in reply sent Monsieur Canet into a rage.
"I will not stand by and be judged by a man from a country that thinks roasting something beige for two hours is haute cuisine," he howled in rage, "You, sir, will do well to stay away from me from now on, comprenez-vous? Or I will stuff you like a chicken!"
"Gracious," Jane whispered, turning to Mary with round eyes.
"I know," she replied, feeling outraged. "I think Monsieur Canet was rather out of order; there's nothing nicer in the world than roast parsnips."
"Who on earth do you think he was arguing with?" Jane asked, ignoring Mary's patriotic defence of English vegetables.
"Heaven knows," Mary shrugged, as she tried to think just who might have vexed the chef so terribly and why.
While it was rather shocking to have overheard a heated argument in staid and boring Plumpton, when the two girls arrived back at Primrose Cottage, all thoughts of the altercation left their heads.
Pandemonium greeted them as they walked through the door; Mrs Mifford was racing down the stairs with an armful of petticoats, calling out for Nora, the maid-of-all-work. Emily was trying to coax Billy, the cat, down from the top of the bookcase, where he was playing with a pair of stockings. Eudora, ever prepared, was practising her dance-steps, already fully dressed in a gown which was miles too big for her and a feathered turban which she had inherited from a long-dead great-aunt.
"Is that my dress?" Mrs Mifford asked, on her way to the kitchens.
