Page 8 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
Ivo waved down Angus' wife and ordered another pint of ale, his mind mulling over what he had overheard. Lord Crabb had clearly angered the locals by forbidding the use of his land for the construction of a leat—and as to why he had forbidden it, Ivo could not guess. Every dog on the street knew that the Corn Laws were causing undue hardship to English families, and any landlord worth his salt would wish to help remedy matters for his tenants.
Though, Ivo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, from what he had seen on his walk earlier, Lord Crabb did not appear to be a very good landlord. Ivo had witnessed fields in desperate need of drainage, fences which needed mending, and cottages in sorry states of disrepair on his earlier jaunt. The transition from Upper Plumpton—Lord Crabb's lands—to Lower Plumpton—the lands which belonged to Northcott—had been obvious, even to he, an outsider. A disinterested landlord was a danger, both to his tenants and the country as a whole; desperate, hungry men quite often committed desperate, violent acts.
Ivo supped on his pint, mulling over what he might do to try to change the fortunes of England's masses, were he ever to find himself in a seat in Parliament. Lord Crabb's birthright to govern the country would not pass to Ivo should his marriage to Miss Hughes bear fruit, but there were other means by which a man might procure himself a seat in government. Namely, the purchase of a seat in the House of Commons from one of the Rotten Boroughs. Usually such positions were gifted to the friends of the peers who controlled them, but they could be bought, if one found a peer in need of being bought—and there were plenty.
As Ivo finished his pint, the gentlemen at Bennett's table began to file out slowly, their meeting evidently at an end. The chap who had reprimanded Bennett for his rebellious talk lingered a while longer than the others, and after a few minutes he made his way over to Ivo's table.
"I hope you don't mind me interrupting," he said, chewing a little on his lip, "Just, I know you overheard our talk and I wanted to let you know that's all it was—talk. Tempers are high, given Lord Crabb's refusal to allow Northcott use his land, but there's not one of us at that table who would actually resort to violence against the viscount. His Grace will prevail, in the end. I have faith in that."
"I wasn't going to report you to the local constable," Ivo grinned, though he was momentarily distracted as, on the far side of the pub, a man fell drunkenly from his seat with a loud clatter.
"That's the local constable," the man snorted, as he glanced at the drunk on the floor, "Mr Marrowbone's not one to strike fear into any man's heart. No, it's Lord Crabb I fear might hear of this; he has a mean streak in him, and would not be above evicting any man he thought was plotting against him—even when they are not. I know that you are staying in Plumpton Hall, I saw you there this afternoon when I was delivering meat for the kitchens. I beg you, please don't say a word about this, or about Bennett—he is a foolish lad, full of notions, but not violent in the least."
"Lord Crabb shall hear nothing of this from me," Ivo was solemn, as he read the fear in the man's expression. "Though, if the chance arises to plead your case for him to allow the use of his lands for the leat's construction, I shall take it."
"Much obliged," the man nodded his head, "And, if you don't mind me saying so, I hope that you will inherit, despite Lord Crabb's marriage. I have threepence down on it happening, as it stands."
"I'm afraid that's threepence you won't get back," Ivo laughed, "Lord Crabb is determined to beget himself an heir, and I am determined to return to London as soon as the wedding is done."
"More's the pity," the man smiled sadly, before tipping his cap and setting off home.
As the fire in the grate was still high, Ivo ordered himself one last pint, reluctant to return to his chilly bedchamber in Plumpton Hall. He happily spent another hour, bathed in warmth and listening to the highjinks of his fellow drinkers, until Angus rang the bell to announce closing time.
"Jus' one more, Angus," Mr Marrowbone slurred, raising his empty glass in hope.
"Less of that now, sir," Angus replied gamely, "Or I'll have to call the constable to remove you."
"Not much chance of that, Angus," one of Marrowbone's friends called with a cackle, "I've heard he's bone-idle and workshy."
"I'll have you know, I work my fingers to the bone, upholding the law in this village," Mr Marrowbone objected, "Do you recall—"
Mr Marrowbone launched into a long and winding tale about his heroics as constable, at which point Ivo decided to take his leave. He had heard too many tall tales in his life, to listen to another, no matter how amusing.
Outside was deathly dark, as the moon was obscured by cloud and most of the houses which faced onto the square had extinguished their lights. Ivo untethered his horse from the post he had tied it to, mounted it, and then made for the direction of Plumpton Hall, mindful of the darkness and his own slight inebriation.
As he trotted up the hill toward home, he again passed the cottage which had earlier been filled with the sound of music and laughter. It was all in darkness now, save one window where a light still burned.
Ivo slowed further, as he caught sight of a figure moving about inside—Miss Mifford! She was pacing the room with a book in hand, her dark hair loose and wild over her shoulders. From the way her lips were moving, Ivo could tell that Miss Mifford was reading aloud to herself—poetry, perhaps?
Not wanting to be caught spying, Ivo urged his steed onward, though his mind was now filled with an image of Miss Mifford reading aloud to him before bed. It was a most tempting fantasy; remain in Plumpton, take Miss Mifford as a wife, and live a life of gentle ebbs and flows.
Plumpton was not his future, however, Ivo reminded himself sternly. There was to be no home here for him, or family; Miss Hughes' hostility toward him would only grow when Lord Crabb eventually succumbed to the ravages of age. No, Ivo vowed, he would not stay on to pursue a mere fantasy; when the wedding was done, he would leave Plumpton and never return.
Ivo repeated this vow to himself, a half-hour later, as he clambered under the bedsheets in his chilly bedchamber. The village of Plumpton meant nothing to him, and he to it, and he would leave as soon as it was acceptable.
The next morning, however, when Ivo was roused from his slumber by an agitated Newman, Ivo was to find just how much the devil enjoyed making a fool of a man with a plan.
"What is it, Newman?" Ivo groused irritably, as the footman shook his shoulder. The sun had not even begun to break outside the window, indicating that the hour was earlier than even Ivo—who did not keep town hours—preferred to rise.
"It is Lord Crabb, Mr Bonville," Newman whispered, his eyes wide and frightened.
"Has he sent you a bill for your lodgings?" Ivo grumbled, as he sat upright in the bed.
"He's dead, Mr Bonville," Newman answered, nervously tugging at his collar, "Dr Bates, the physician, believes it was poison."
"Poison?"
"Atropa belladonna," Newman confirmed, "Or deadly nightshade, as you and I might know it. Dr Bates recognised the rash on the body at once."
