Page 48 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
But Sarah barely heard her over the din of her racing thoughts. Mrs Vickery was planning to leave Plumpton. She might already be gone, for all Sarah knew. And—Sarah guessed—she wasn’t leaving to visit a sister at all. Mrs Vickery was fleeing justice.
“Anne,” Sarah said urgently, catching her arm and pulling her away from the other two. “I need you to run to The Ring.Find Mr Marrowbone and tell him to meet me at Long Acres at once. Please don’t argue or tell anyone what I’ve asked.”
“What’s going on?” Anne asked in a worried whisper. She had worked for the Hughes family for years and this was the first moment of melodrama she’d witnessed from her mistress.
“I don’t have time to properly explain,” Sarah answered. “Just please promise me you’ll do as I ask.”
“We were all going to have a go at quoits stall,” Anne sounded mournful, her eyes wandering over to where Mr Henderson stood.
“I’ll give you sixpence later,” Sarah promised. “You can play as many games as you want then.”
“Alright,” Anne relented, easily bribed by the promise of a few coins.
“Thank you,” Sarah said, already pulling her away from her friends.
They parted just past the cake stall, Anne hurrying toward the tavern, while Sarah made for Long Acres. As she walked, she fished in her reticule and drew out one of the boiled sweets Lord Deverell had won earlier. She popped it into her mouth and sucked furiously, hoping the sugar might calm her nerves.
But as she rounded the final bend and the gates of Long Acres came into view, her stomach gave a sickening lurch. She had concocted no plan, rehearsed no clever speech. She was marching into a duel with nothing but a sweet in her mouth and a prayer that Mr Marrowbone might save the day.
The gates were open and Sarah began the walk up the drive, pondering on what she would say to keep Mrs Vickery distracted until Lucian and Lord Crabb arrived.
As it turned out, she didn’t need to grapple for an opening line, for Mrs Vickery provided it for her.
As Sarah reached the top of the drive, the housekeeper emerged from inside, dragging a portmanteau.
“Are you going somewhere, Mrs Vickery?” Sarah called, keeping her voice light, as though she was making a social call.
“To see my sister in Bath,” the housekeeper panted, as she continued to drag the trunk without pausing to chat.
A gig stood at the bottom of the steps, to it tethered an old mare. Out of instinctive manners, Sarah rushed forward to assist Mrs Vickery with her load.
“Thank you, Miss Hughes,” she said, as together they managed to heft the trunk up into the gig.
“You’re welcome,” Sarah replied, a little breathless from the exertion. The portmanteau had weighed a ton; Mrs Vickery must have included the kitchen sink on her packing list.
“Will you not stay for the funeral?” Sarah continued, desperate now to make conversation now that she had inadvertently assisted in making Mrs Vickery’s get-away quicker.
“I expect Mr Leek’s nephew will arrive tomorrow and take over such matters,” the housekeeper gave a sniff of distaste. “I will not tarry to witness him strip the house of its valuables before he lays siege to the gardens.”
“But you cared for this place,” Sarah said carefully. “Surely you should stay to defend it?”
“I gave everything to this house and the gardens,” Mrs Vickery replied, her spine stiffening. “My pride. My name. My heart. For all my sacrifice, in the end I was left with nothing but pain.”
Sarah’s mouth was dry. “Was it Mr Leek that hurt you? Did you love him?”
Mrs Vickery gave a bitter laugh that was almost a sob. Sarah took a slight step back, for at that moment the woman looked truly mad.
“Love? I worshiped the man!” Mrs Vickery screeched. “And he knew it. He used it. He let me believe—oh, foolish me—thatwe were building something together. That this house, these gardens, this life was ours together. He even hinted at me, when Hardwick started threatening to cut-off the stream….”
She stopped herself there, her eyes distant. Sarah could guess, however, just what Mr Leek had hinted at the housekeeper to do. And she, loyal servant that she was, had committed the gravest of sins, just for his approval.
Despite her disgust, Sarah felt a stab of pity for Mrs Vickery. How dreadfully Mr Leek had used her. And not only her—he had used Mrs Fawkes as well. It was he, after all, who had spread the rumour about her and Mr Hardwick. Mrs Mifford herself had said so. Mr Leek had smeared his lover’s name to cover his own tracks and convinced his loyal housekeeper to murder his enemy. Good riddance to him, she thought darkly.
“And then,” Mrs Vickery continued, her voice rising to near-hysterical levels. “After everything that I did for him, he put on that vulgar display at the assembly with Mrs Fawkes. A woman dressed up like a painted parlour maid—the indignity of it.”
“So you concocted a plan for revenge,” Sarah finished, feeling braver now. “You made your excuses to go water the night-blooming cereus, stole home and got a shot-gun, and awaited Mr Leek’s return.”
Mrs Vickery nodded, her mouth set in a thin white line. She glanced at the waiting gig, then at Sarah, her expression torn.
