Page 3 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Can’t happen soon enough,” Mrs Bridges said with such venom that Sarah almost expected her to spit on the floor.
“Has he upset you in some way?” Sarah probed. Mrs Bridges was not typically one for violent sentiment—her arsenal usually consisted of tinctures, nostrums, and poultices. Which made the elderly woman’s anger toward Mr Hardwick all the more curious.
“He’s upset everyone,” she replied. “That man rides roughshod over everything; horses, hedgerows, and humans alike. Mark my words, he brought bad luck along with him when he inherited that land and he will soon meet his comeuppance.”
Sarah suppressed a shiver at her words. She had long outgrown the village tales that called Mrs Bridges a witch—but as the old woman glared after the departing phaeton, muttering under her breath, she could not help but wonder if she was placing a curse on Mr Hardwick.
“Well,” Mrs Bridges said abruptly, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “I’d best be off; I need to purchase some tallow in the butcher’s. You make sure you have a strong cup of chamomile when you get home, to settle the nerves. If Mr Hardwick upsets you again, you let me know. I’m a crack-shot, though you wouldn’t think it.”
With a vaguely distracted nod to Sarah, Mrs Bridges took her leave. Sarah watched her hurrying away for a moment, before she continued on her own path.
Her mind had moved past Mr Leek and was now filled with thoughts of Silas Hardwick, who had recently inherited a sizable farm just outside Plumpton. Sarah hadn’t yet met him face to face, but she already knew three things about Mr Hardwick: he drove like a madman, he didn’t care who he startled, and he had somehow managed to make enemies out of the most peaceable woman in Plumpton.
Quite the feat for a man who had only been in residence in the Cotswolds for a month.
Sarah’s route home took her past Northcott Manor, though she did not linger. There would be plenty of time to catch up with Mary tomorrow, at dinner. A little further along, she spotted Mrs Mifford marching her niece, Miss Charlotte Mifford, along with military purpose. Charlotte looked none too pleased at being towed along by the elbow.
“We’ll be late for tea at Primrose,” Mrs Mifford cried to her niece. “You simply must learn to walk with purpose, Charlotte.”
“We would not need to rush if you hadn’t insisted on a detour past Mr Leek’s,” Charlotte muttered in response. “We stood gawking at his greenhouse for a full ten minutes.”
“I was not gawking, Charlotte, I was appreciating—there’s a difference. I’m something of a horticulturist, I’ll have you know. What a pity that the earl had left, just before we arrived…Why, hello, Miss Hughes.”
Mrs Mifford dropped her grip on Charlotte’s elbow to wave at Sarah.
“Good afternoon to you both,” Sarah smiled, as Charlotte rubbed her elbow mournfully. “Lovely day for a walk.”
“Indeed it is, Charlotte and I just took a stroll past Long Acres. I have been thinking of installing a greenhouse at Primrose Cottage. Did you know, Miss Hughes, that I am an avid gardener?”
Sarah hid a grin as Mrs Mifford launched into a soliloquy about her talent for gardening. Beside her, Charlotte began to rummage in her reticule. Both were so distracted, that neither noticed the man who appeared behind them at the bend in the road. He was handsome and well turned-out, though his startled expression gave the impression of a hare caught in a snare. His eyes landed on Mrs Mifford, widened in unmistakable terror and, without any hesitation, he hurled himself into the hedgerow.
Sarah did not so much as blink; Mrs Mifford did tend to have an effect on people.
“I would like to stay and catch up dear,” Mrs Mifford sighed, having run out of steam, “But Charlotte has waylaid us so much that we are already late for tea. Come, Charlotte, we must not dally.”
Sarah offered Charlotte a sympathetic smile as the Mifford matriarch dragged her away, back toward the village. Shewaited a moment, to make certain they were gone, before she approached the hedgerow.
“The coast is clear,” she called, trying to keep the note of laughter from her voice.
There was a pause. Then a rustle. Then out from the bushes emerged a man, brushing twigs from his finely cut coat.
“You have my eternal gratitude,” the man said, his gray eyes still scanning the road, as if worried that Mrs Mifford might reappear.
Sarah took advantage of his distraction to properly take his measure. He was tall, broad at the shoulders, and in possession of a fine, athletic frame. Though his athletic prowess had already been evinced by his impressive leap into the bushes. His hair was dark, with a peppering of grey at the temples, and his face was so wickedly handsome that Sarah was momentarily lost for words.
Luckily, her companion was not.
“I am Ashford,” he said, his tone a little pompous for a man with a twig still stuck in his hair.
The infamous earl. Sarah hid a smile as she reflexively executed a neat curtsey.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord. I am Miss Hughes,” she said, and then because she was feeling a little mischievous, she added; “It’s not every day I rescue an earl.”
“It’s not every day that I dive into bushes to hide,” came his dry response. “I suppose we might call this a day of firsts for us both.”
The earl ran an agitated hand through his thick hair, his expression falling as he found the twig still snared there.
“Mrs Mifford can be quite fearsome,” Sarah consoled, sensing that his brusque demeanour was more bruised pride than anything else.
