Page 2 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
Sarah hid a smile; despite their new lofty titles, the Mifford sisters would not suffer any snobs in their midst.
“Not arrogant exactly,” Jane argued, ever the peacemaker. “Just slightly impatient. And I don’t think we can blame him his impatience with Mama around—she’d irritate a saint if she got close enough. And, besides, he’swidower.”
This last piece of information was delivered with a definite note of “and that’s that”. Sensing that Emily and Eudora might require a more detailed explanation as to why widowers were exempt from social sufferance, Sarah lightly made her excuses to leave.
“I will see you all tomorrow at dinner,” she said, as she hoisted her basket over her arm. “And your earl.”
She bid them a wave and hurried toward the village, ignoring Emily’s plaintive cry of “he’s not my earl”.
Plumpton village was little more than a row of shops and cottages clustered around a village green. It was quaint, charming and, in the way of most Cotswolds villages, would not have looked out of place in a story book.
Sarah did not have time to appreciate the pastoral village scene, for as she neared The Ring’o’Bells she sighted a group of men gathered around a cart which had lost its wheel. As was usually the way with men and vehicular issues, there was an undercurrent of excitement, notable head scratching, peacocking from some, and unwanted observations from others.
“It’s definitely the linchpin, has to be the linchpin.”
Mr Marrowbone—the village constable—waved his pint of ale knowingly at the lopsided carriage, his expression conveying satisfaction at his own genius.
As even Sarah knew that the linchpin was what secured the wheel to the axle, she suspected Mr Marrowbone’s advice fell into the unwanted observations category.
“Oh, case closed then—we can all go home,” a man Sarah presumed to be the driver of the vehicle replied. This presumption was based on his accent—decidedly not Plumptonian—his frustrated expression, and the fact that he was the only gentleman present not clutching a pint in his hand.
“No need for that, now,” Mr Marrowbone said, before taking a long sip from his pint, completely nonplussed.
“You’re not the one who needs to get these exotic blooms to Hill House before they dry out,” the driver replied, though his tone had softened. Perhaps he had realised that Mr Marrowbone and his acquaintances from the pub represented the best help that Plumpton could offer him. Any port in a storm and all that.
“Oh, you wouldn’t want to leave Mrs Fawkes waiting,” Mr Marrowbone agreed, his cheeks rosy.
“A shame that such a beautiful woman is in possession of such a foul temper,” Mr McDowell, the grocer agreed. “I pity Colonel Fawkes.”
“I don’t pity him her temper,” Mr Marrowbone replied saucily. “But I do pity that Silas Hardwick is making a cuckold out of ‘im.”
Sensing that the conversation was about to descend into topics better suited for much later in the day, Sarah interrupted.
“You might find someone to help you with the linchpin in The King’s Arms coaching inn, just down the road,” Sarah called over the heads of the gathered men.
Several pairs of eyes turned to glare at her and, sensing that she had injured male pride, Sarah continued. “You could find no better men to watch over your cargo than these, sir. They’ll keep your plants safe from harm while you’re gone.”
“Indeedin, we will,” Mr Marrowbone puffed out his chest with pride.
Though a spinster gathering dust, Sarah was well aware that most men responded well to praise. So well, in fact, that she often wondered if most wars might have been averted if only a woman had been close by to inform the warring factions that yes, they were very important and had indeed made their point.
With that settled, the driver took off for The King’s Inn at great speed and Sarah continued on her walk home.
As she strolled, she tried not to think on Mr Marrowbone’s comment about Mrs Fawkes and Mr Hardwick. Beautiful women always attracted sordid rumours about their love lives without cause—and Arabella Fawkes was decidedly beautiful. She also had a husband who spent a great deal of time away from home. Sarah supposed the men of Plumpton were merely hopeful that she entertained other gentlemen, rather than certain.
A foolish wish, for Colonel Fawkes had won the shooting competition at the village fête five years running.
At the bottom of the village, Sarah crossed over the bridge that led to the London Road, her mind still on matters botanical. It was only by chance that she looked up in time to spot a gleaming phaeton barreling toward her. She hopped out of the way just in time to avoid being flattened to mincemeat by its horses’ hooves.
“Watch where you’re going,” Sarah called after the reckless driver, as she righted herself.
She put her hand to her bonnet which she was certain was askew, then took a steadying breath to recover her wits.
“Miss Hughes, are you quite well? Oh, that Mr Hardwick is a menace—someone aught to string him up for the way that he behaves.”
This concern—and call for violence—was voiced by old Mrs Bridges, the village herbalist. Usually Mrs Bridges wore a kindly expression but today her dark eyes flashed with anger as she shook her fist the long departed phaeton.
“I don’t think we need to raise a mob just yet, Mrs Bridges,” Sarah replied grimly. “Judging by the way Mr Hardwick wields a whip, he is bound to meet a gruesome end all by himself.”
