Page 40 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“I will try to engineer a quiet word with Miss Vale,” Captain Thorne replied. “I mean to see whether she will corroborate what we suspect of Mrs Pinnock—though her loyalty might prevent her speaking.”
Flora’s heart gave an unaccountable pang. A moment alone with Miss Vale. She tried to smother the spark of jealousy—for she knew she was being irrational.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “Miss Vale may not be as loyal to Mrs Pinnock as one might suppose. At dinner she spoke rather sharply to the girl—Miss Vale seemed miserable in her company.”
“That’s useful to know,” he answered, smiling down at her.
Flora’s heart melted and her stomach gave a delicious lurch, though to her dismay, she saw that they were nearly at the bridge which crossed the river to the village proper. She began to slow her pace, reluctant to part.
“What awaits you at this meeting?” James asked lightly, as though he too did not want their walk to end.
“According to Mrs Mifford, we will be making final arrangements for the harvest home and the assembly,” she replied, hoping she did not sound too terrified at the prospect.
“Oh, yes, the assembly. Mrs Mifford has sought reassurance that I will attend several times,” he answered mischievously. “I expect, Miss Bridges, that your dance card will be full?”
“It never is,” Flora answered, not wanting to tell him that she ever bothered to bring one, such was the demand for her hand.
“Good,” he sounded rather satisfied. “For tomorrow night, I intend to fill it only with my name.”
He paused mid-step and looked at her, with such intent in his eyes that Flora’s mouth went dry. For one suspended moment she could not breathe, could not think—only feel the weight of his gaze.
Then, with a faint flicker of irritation toward the village ahead, he inclined his head.
“I should leave you here, Miss Bridges,” he said reluctantly, offering her a bow.
Flora nodded dumbly in reply and managed a feeble wave of parting before hurrying on, her face flaming so hotly she feared that she might have left a trail of smoke in her wake.
Outside the parish hall, she fanned her face with her hand and squared her shoulders before slipping inside.
A circle of chairs had been arranged in the middle of the room, each occupied by one of Plumpton’s most determined ladies. At the far side, Miss Charlotte Mifford waved brightly and patted the empty seat beside her, beckoning Flora to join the conclave.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered as Flora slipped into the chair. “It’s my first meeting too, and I feel like a fish out of luck.”
“Do you mean water, perhaps?” Flora suggested with confusion.
“Yes, that as well,” Charlotte agreed with perfect seriousness, then brightened. “But at least we can swim together.”
Glad of the companionship, Flora settled back into her chair, and a few moments later Lady Sarah Deverell, Countess of Ashford, called the meeting to order.
“I’ll skip over the minutes from the last gathering, shall I?” she suggested mildly. “We don’t want to revisit that fracas anytime soon.”
Two bright spots of indignation appeared on Mrs Mifford’s cheeks.
“It’s not my fault Mrs Flood is half-deaf,” Flora heard her whisper to her daughter beside her. “I said everyone enjoys her plum tart, not that everyone thinks she’s a—”
“Yes, Mother,” the Duchess of Northcott interjected hastily, her smile rather fixed. “We all recall what happened.”
Lady Sarah cleared her throat delicately, though before she could restore order, Mrs Canards interrupted.
“Shall we note the absences?” she asked, glancing around the circle imperiously. “I see Mrs Walton isn’t here. I expect she’s simply dying from the shame of having all of Plumpton see her washing.”
She paused, eyes gleaming, before adding with a patently false sigh, “Poor dear.”
“We don’t usually make a note of absences, Mrs Canards. Attendance is, after all, voluntary—our personal service to the village and to God,” Lady Deverell interjected, her tone slightly exasperated. “Now, shall we get down to business? The harvest fair will have to be delayed by a week, or until such a time as the village green ceases to be a quagmire. The assembly, however, can go ahead—if the society agrees to it?”
Flora stilled; she hadn’t realised that tomorrow’s dance was up for debate. She suddenly felt very glad that Mrs Mifford had forced—er, invited—her to attend.
“We should hold off,” Mrs Canards decided, much to Flora’s horror.
