Page 1 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
Chapter One
Miss Jane Mifford was in something of a quandary. Having spent most of her one-and-twenty years espousing her wish to remain unwed, the past few months had shown her that if she were to fulfil this desire that it would not be without its downfalls.
Or rather downfall, singular. Her mother.
Jane did love her mama—she even liked her on occasion—though she knew that any fondness she felt toward her was intrinsically linked to how much time they spent together. Absence, Jane firmly believed, made the heart grow fonder—especially when it came to Mrs Mifford.
Unfortunately for Jane, the marriage of her elder sister Mary to the Duke of Northcott had left a position vacant by Mrs Mifford's side, and she was determined that Jane would fill it.
"Where are you off to?" Mrs Mifford questioned, as Jane—having finished helping Nora, the maid of all work, in the kitchen—made her way downstairs after fetching her pelisse.
"For a walk," Jane answered, as she shrugged the ankle-length coat on over her walking dress.
Mrs Mifford cast a despairing eye over Jane, her green eyes coming to rest on the hem of her skirts which were, for once, pristine. Jane, as well as being a prolific reader, was also a prolific walker. The activity did much for her constitution but little for the hems of her skirts and petticoats, which were often stained with mud.
"I rather think that you would be better suited to spending the afternoon here with me," Mrs Mifford decided, forcing a smile so that her offer might look more inviting. "Mary dropped over the latest issue of the Belle Assemblée before she left for town; I do know how much you love to read."
"I love to read books, Mama," Jane countered, not for a moment fooled that her mother was interested in any of the periodical's articles, "Not periodicals filled with fashion plates."
Mrs Mifford gave a moue of distaste at Jane's objection and she would have argued against it, had the arrival of her younger sister, Emily, not offered a distraction.
"Emily will sit and read with you," Jane said firmly, unable to look her younger sister in the eye as she offered her up as a sacrifice to appease the Mifford matriarch.
"What's that?"
As ever, Emily, who lived somewhere between their village of Plumpton and the cloudy blue sky, did not quite catch the gist of the conversation on her first attempt.
"I was saying," Jane said, patiently, "That you would be happy to sit with Mama in the parlour and read."
"Oh, no, I really wouldn't," Emily, whose social nous did not stretch to knowing that occasionally it was necessary to tell white-lies, answered honestly, "Gosh, there's nothing I'd like to do less."
Jane placed a hand to her brow; Emily was the sweetest and softest of her three sisters, but her softness quite often affected the matter between her ears. Thanks to her blunt opine, Jane might yet be forced to spend the afternoon with her mother in order to soothe her battered ego.
"Eudora," Jane called her youngest sister's name in relief, as she appeared at the top of the stairs, "What have you planned for the afternoon? Mama is in search of a companion to read with her."
"I'm free," Eudora answered, as she came tap-tapping down the stairs holding the cane that their great-uncle, Lord Crabb, had left behind the last time that he had called. Eudora, as the youngest of the four Mifford girls, was forever trying to be seen as older than her years—though the affectation of using a cane was really quite extreme, even for her.
"Papa has finished with The Times," Eudora continued, as she reached the final step, "We could read through the obituaries together, to see who has died."
Mrs Mifford visibly balked at this idea—obituary reading being an activity for those for whom time was running out—and raised a hand to her neck, to fiddle with the string of pearls she wore.
"That does sound nice, dear," she replied, a moment later, in a tone which suggested the opposite, "But I have just recalled that I have something very important to do. Oh, to be as idle as my three girls, with little else to do bar sit on my hands."
With that small barb, Mrs Mifford turned on her heel and fled for the kitchen where, no doubt, she would attend to the very important business of pouring herself a glass of medicinal wine.
"Would anyone else like to read the obituaries with me?" Eudora asked hopefully.
"Oh no," Emily was as honest with her sister as she had been with her mother, "I'd rather be listed in them than spend an afternoon reading them."
"And I was just on my way out," Jane demurred, as she raced to the door before anyone else decided they wished to waylay her.
Outside, the air was as crisp as crackling, stinging Jane's nose and biting at her fingers. Another lady might have worn a muff and a scarf, but those ladies were mere promenaders compared to Jane. When Jane walked, she did so briskly; she saw little point in a sauntering ramble, preferring instead to keep a fast pace which might burn through the restless energy which filled her.
It had ever been so even as a child Jane had been plagued by a surplus of energy, which had quite often resulted in broken plates, windows, and—once—bones. She sometimes wondered if she had been born into the wrong sex, for she could never quite master the feminine occupations of sitting, stitching, and staying quiet. As she had aged, she had managed—with some help from her mama and the wooden spoon—to channel some of her energy inward toward reading, daydreaming, and thinking, but she still could not spend a day indoors, no matter what the weather.
At the garden gate, Jane turned left, deciding that she wished to walk through the lands of Upper Plumpton, before looping back around by the river to come back home through Lower Plumpton and the village. She walked a little along the London Road, before veering off it just before the turn for Plumpton Hall into a field used for grazing, which would act as a short cut.
Jane picked her way carefully across the grass; while she had little issue with muck, even she would not relish sinking one of her boots into a pile of cow-dung. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the ground—though with an ear out for any bovine rumblings—until she reached the low fence, beyond which lay the path which ran alongside the river. Not caring a fig for propriety—for who would see her?—Jane hitched up the skirts of her walking dress and clambered over the style, breathing a sigh of relief as the river came into view.
