Page 41 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“I agree with Mrs Canards,” Mrs Wickling added.
“There’s a surprise.”
Mrs Mifford glanced innocently around the room as though looking for the source of the whispered aside, as Mrs Wickling glared across at her.
“We’ll put it to a vote,” Lady Deverell suggested, her voice now three octaves higher than when the meeting had started.
Flora’s fingers curled tightly around her lap. The assembly could not be cancelled—she’d had only had a few minutes to daydream of Captain Thorne holding her in his arms. It seemed unfair that the dream would be snatched away so soon.
“One must think of propriety,” Mrs Canards sniffed. “Dancing so soon after a storm feels unseemly.”
“On the contrary,” Miss Mifford piped up, her voice wobbling but resolute. “I think it would be most…seemly. After all, what better way to raise spirits than to put our best foot in?”
“Forward,” Flora prompted.
“Forward. Yes. Best foot forward,” Miss Mifford agreed.
Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling began to protest in earnest about the propriety of it all and were met with loud argument from Mrs Mifford, who maintained that if Mrs Canards had her way, nothing would ever happen in Plumpton.
After a moment of this, Lady Deverell lost her patience and clapped her hands together for silence.
“All in favour of proceeding with the assembly tomorrow night?” she asked, once the room had quieted.
Every hand in the room—bar two—shot into the air, including Flora’s. She determinedly held it high, quietly pleased to have the opportunity to have her wish counted.
“The ayes have it,” Lady Deverell announced, relief in her tone.
Flora’s breath escaped in a rush she hadn’t known she was holding—her dream of being held in Captain Thorne’s arms was still alive.
Beside her, Charlotte leaned close and whispered, “Well, that’s one fish in the bush.”
“Do you mean bird?” Flora asked, glad that Miss Mifford could not read her thoughts.
“Yes, that too,” Charlotte agreed serenely, as if she’d meant it all along.
“Shall we continue with the rest of the agenda?” the countess queried, once the ladies had settled.
When she was met with no objections she began. “First, we have a request from Mr Mifford that he be excused from judging the annual pie competition at the Harvest Fair,” Lady Deverell cleared her throat delicately. “We can’t blame him, after what happened between Mrs Deveraux and Mrs Coleman.”
A ripple of tutting travelled around the circle.
Charlotte leaned eagerly toward Flora and whispered, far too loudly, “Ripped her cap right off, so she did—Mrs Coleman! You don’t expect that from a lady of seventy.”
Several ladies blanched, though Mrs Canards looked positively thrilled at the reminder.
Lady Deverell ignored Miss Mifford’s interruption and continued on—a request for donations of jam and preserves for hampers for invalid soldiers, a reminder that the list for cleaning the vestry at St Mary’s was far too sparse, and a call for volunteers for the choir.
“And lastly,” the countess continued, her voice turning very dry as she extracted a letter from her pocket. “A letter has reached me informing me that Mrs Keating has only had the thatch on the front of her roof refreshed—the writer preferred to remain anonymous.”
Her gaze landed squarely on Mrs Canards, who widened her eyes with exaggerated innocence.
“One must commend those who care about the appearance of the village,” she muttered, primly. “Even when viewed from behind.”
Flora bit back a smile. It struck her that Plumpton hardly needed murder to be lively—the Parish Ladies’ Society was quite equal to the task.
When at last the meeting was called to a close, Flora lingered to help Charlotte tidy away the chairs. The Duchess of Northcott, excused from such duties owing to her condition, dawdled too, eager to chatter about the assembly.
“And what will you wear tomorrow, Miss Bridges?” she asked brightly, after detailing her own choice of outfit for the event.
