Page 24 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
The pair parted and Sarah set off in search of Anne. She nodded and smiled at various acquaintances, though did not stop to chat. After a few futile minutes of searching, Sarah realised that Anne would not be found near any of the market stalls. Recalling the earlier conversation with her father, she made her way across the green to the main street.
She immediately spotted Anne and Nora lingering near the butcher’s shop. Both girls had removed their mobcaps and were engaging in so much hair-flicking, that Sarah worried they might be surrounded by an invisible swarm of flies.
“Outrageous,” Mrs Canards—who Sarah had not noticed loitering nearby—called over, with a pointed nod to the two girls. Beside her, Mrs Wickling nodded mutely in furious agreement.
“They’re not doing anything wrong,” Sarah protested, crossly.
“They’ve been making cow-eyes all morning through the window at the young Henderson lad,” Mrs Canards answered, pursing her small mouth in disapproval. “If they’re not careful, he’ll have them trussed and hanging in the window for someone’s dinner.”
Sarah bit back a quip about rump-roasts for she didn’t think Mrs Canards the right audience. Lord Deverell on the other hand…
Her eyes must have glazed over as she imagined the earl’s wicked grin if she had dared say aloud her bawdy joke, for Mrs Canards gave a very annoyed cough to catch her attention.
“As I was saying, Miss Hughes,” she blustered, once certain Sarah was listening. “You’ll need to have a word with the girl. She obviously thinks she can behave as she likes, now that she’s employed by a murderer.”
Sarah reeled as though she had been slapped. She opened her mouth to defend her father but before she had a chance, a cold voice cut through the warm summer air.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs Canards, but that is quite enough.”
All three women turned in unison to see Mrs Vickery striding towards them, a basket looped over one stout arm. Her dark eyes were narrowed, and her entire bearing crackled with indignation.
“This is a village green, not a court of law. If you’ve evidence to present, take it to the magistrate,” the housekeeper continued, with a sniff. “Otherwise, if you have a surfeit of energy to expend, I suggest you direct it to your rose bushes instead of spreading malicious gossip. They’d more black spot than bloom from what I could see when I passed.”
It was Mrs Canards’ turn to reel back in horror; she prided herself on having won Plumpton’s annual gardening prize every year for as long as anyone could remember. Apart, of course, from the infamous year when her bushes had been mysteriously sabotaged. Even her fiercest—and numerous—detractors had agreed that the competition had been unfair that year, and the eventual winner a victor in title only.
“I have never been so grievously insulted in all my life,” Mrs Canards stuttered, drawing her shawl around her as though it might protect her from any more sharp words.
“I find that hard to believe,” the Long Acres’ housekeeper snorted in response.
“Well, I never,” Mrs Canards—for want of a better retort—replied, aghast. With an air of great indignation, the ghoulish gossip stuck her nose in the air and stalked off, trailed by an equally scandalised Mrs Wickling.
“Thank you, Mrs Vickery,” Sarah ventured when they were gone. “It was good of you to defend my father, though I fear you have made an enemy of Mrs Canards.”
“She made an enemy of me long ago,” the housekeeper dismissed, as she moved her basket from one arm to the other. “I cannot abide her prattle. I fear my sharp tongue was less in defence of your father, and more to give vent to spleen long pent up.”
“Er, well intentions aside, I am still grateful,” Sarah answered, thrown a little by her unusual frankness.
“And I am grateful that I shall not have to bear witness to her mistreating her Lancaster Reds on my walk to the village,” Mrs Vickery finished, with great satisfaction. “So we both benefit, Miss Hughes.”
With that, and a curt nod, the housekeeper marched off into the butcher’s, leaving Sarah blinking after her in bemused silence.
CHAPTER TEN
IT HAD BEENthe Duchess of Northcott who’d first suggested a day trip to Rosemount Manor to view the gardens there but, by the time the party was gathered in the carriage, Mrs Mifford had already taken credit for the idea.
“The gardens are said to be magnificent,” she called over to Lucian, who was contentedly squashed beside Sarah. “The estate was purchased by a cloth-merchant some years ago and he has poured a fortune into restoring the gardens to their former glory. Which, I suppose, does help dull the whiff of industry that now lingers about the place.”
“Don’t be so snobbish, Mama,” Emily, Lady Chambers scolded.
Mrs Mifford looked to have taken great offence to this comment but everyone was saved an argument as George, holder of the courtesy title Marquess of Thackaberry, gave a howl of annoyance from his seat on the floor, loud enough to wake the dead.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Mary apologised to them all. “I’m afraid the jolting of the carriage is upsetting him. He’s incredibly delicate.”
Lucian held back a snort of amusement; George was about as delicate as a cannonball. Sturdy as a cart horse and equipped with lungs to rival an opera singer, the only thing delicate about George was everyone’s nerves in his company.
“Come here, my lad,” Lucian said, bending forward to sweep George up upon his knee. He gave the young toddler a sternglance, turned him in the direction of the window, then pointed outside.
“Sheep,” Lucian said simply, pointing to the white dots on the rolling hills.
