Chapter Fifteen
FLORA HURRIED ALONG the road from Brackenfield, her shawl pulled close around her.
Her mind was a whirl of anxiety as she contemplated her first meeting of the Plumpton Parish Ladies’ Society.
Mrs Mifford had called on her personally the previous evening to extend the invitation—though invitation was perhaps too gentle a word. It had felt rather more like a summons.
Half lost in thoughts of what was to come—and worried the other ladies might object to her presence—Flora started when a tall figure appeared round the bend.
“Miss Bridges,” Captain Thorne greeted, his hat already in hand. He looked a little bashful. “What a coincidence.”
His voice—usually a pleasant deep timbre—jumped oddly high on the word coincidence. Flora looked at him curiously, and he blushed.
“In truth, I came this way in the hopes of meeting you,” he confessed, giving a rueful laugh. “Though I dawdled so long that I was in danger of being charged with loitering by Mr Marrowbone.”
“Mr Marrowbone would never think to act on his own initiative,” Flora assured him, hoping the smile upon her face did not look as stupidly pleased as she felt. He had been waiting for her!
“May I walk with you to the village?” the captain asked, offering his arm.
“I could think of nothing nicer,” she replied, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.
They went a few steps in companionable silence before Flora remembered herself.
“How went your meeting with Mr Henderson?” she asked, forcing her thoughts back to reality.
His presence had so lifted her spirits that she had momentarily forgotten she was still suspected of murder. If she could capture his essence and bottle it, she thought wryly, she would make a fortune—though she rather doubted she could bring herself to share him.
“Well, your suspicions were correct about one person,” he answered, a little mysteriously.
“Mr Henderson?” Flora looked up at him.
“No—about Mrs Pinnock,” he said. “It seems she may now be our key suspect.”
As they walked, he relayed the tale: Henderson’s trembling confession of bribery, and Mrs Pinnock’s hand in setting it in motion.
“You were right when you guessed that her father’s financial losses might have been linked to Sir Ambrose,” he concluded, his tone warm with admiration.
Flora felt a peculiar thrill, touched both by his open praise and by the fact that he had remembered something she had said in passing. No one, she thought, had ever cared to note her ideas before.
“And,” he continued, his voice sobering. “When I visited Mrs Fitzhenry, she confirmed my suspicions from reading over his ledgers—Sir Ambrose was stealing from your inheritance. According to her, you are not the first ward he has stolen from.”
“Good heavens. Is there anyone he didn’t swindle?” Flora stared up at him, aghast.
Her thoughts reeled—her own fortune, another girl’s, Mrs Pinnock’s father…how many others had Sir Ambrose stolen from?
They crested the brow of the hill and Flora saw the village laid out neatly below them—their walk would soon come to an end. She could not attend her first meeting of the Ladies’ Society on the arm of an unmarried man—Mrs Canards would surely expire from the scandal of it.
Though that might not be such a bad thing…
“What are our next steps?” she asked quickly, feeling guilty for thinking such a thing.
“I will try to engineer a quiet word with Miss Vale,” Captain Thorne replied. “I mean to see whether she will corroborate what we suspect of Mrs Pinnock—though her loyalty might prevent her speaking.”
Flora’s heart gave an unaccountable pang. A moment alone with Miss Vale. She tried to smother the spark of jealousy—for she knew she was being irrational.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “Miss Vale may not be as loyal to Mrs Pinnock as one might suppose. At dinner she spoke rather sharply to the girl—Miss Vale seemed miserable in her company.”
“That’s useful to know,” he answered, smiling down at her.
Flora’s heart melted and her stomach gave a delicious lurch, though to her dismay, she saw that they were nearly at the bridge which crossed the river to the village proper. She began to slow her pace, reluctant to part.
“What awaits you at this meeting?” James asked lightly, as though he too did not want their walk to end.
“According to Mrs Mifford, we will be making final arrangements for the harvest home and the assembly,” she replied, hoping she did not sound too terrified at the prospect.
“Oh, yes, the assembly. Mrs Mifford has sought reassurance that I will attend several times,” he answered mischievously. “I expect, Miss Bridges, that your dance card will be full?”
“It never is,” Flora answered, not wanting to tell him that she ever bothered to bring one, such was the demand for her hand.
“Good,” he sounded rather satisfied. “For tomorrow night, I intend to fill it only with my name.”
He paused mid-step and looked at her, with such intent in his eyes that Flora’s mouth went dry. For one suspended moment she could not breathe, could not think—only feel the weight of his gaze.
Then, with a faint flicker of irritation toward the village ahead, he inclined his head.
“I should leave you here, Miss Bridges,” he said reluctantly, offering her a bow.
Flora nodded dumbly in reply and managed a feeble wave of parting before hurrying on, her face flaming so hotly she feared that she might have left a trail of smoke in her wake.
Outside the parish hall, she fanned her face with her hand and squared her shoulders before slipping inside.
A circle of chairs had been arranged in the middle of the room, each occupied by one of Plumpton’s most determined ladies. At the far side, Miss Charlotte Mifford waved brightly and patted the empty seat beside her, beckoning Flora to join the conclave.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered as Flora slipped into the chair. “It’s my first meeting too, and I feel like a fish out of luck.”
“Do you mean water, perhaps?” Flora suggested with confusion.
“Yes, that as well,” Charlotte agreed with perfect seriousness, then brightened. “But at least we can swim together.”
Glad of the companionship, Flora settled back into her chair, and a few moments later Lady Sarah Deverell, Countess of Ashford, called the meeting to order.
“I’ll skip over the minutes from the last gathering, shall I?” she suggested mildly. “We don’t want to revisit that fracas anytime soon.”
Two bright spots of indignation appeared on Mrs Mifford’s cheeks.
“It’s not my fault Mrs Flood is half-deaf,” Flora heard her whisper to her daughter beside her. “I said everyone enjoys her plum tart, not that everyone thinks she’s a—”
“Yes, Mother,” the Duchess of Northcott interjected hastily, her smile rather fixed. “We all recall what happened.”
Lady Sarah cleared her throat delicately, though before she could restore order, Mrs Canards interrupted.
“Shall we note the absences?” she asked, glancing around the circle imperiously. “I see Mrs Walton isn’t here. I expect she’s simply dying from the shame of having all of Plumpton see her washing.”
She paused, eyes gleaming, before adding with a patently false sigh, “Poor dear.”
“We don’t usually make a note of absences, Mrs Canards.
Attendance is, after all, voluntary—our personal service to the village and to God,” Lady Deverell interjected, her tone slightly exasperated.
“Now, shall we get down to business? The harvest fair will have to be delayed by a week, or until such a time as the village green ceases to be a quagmire. The assembly, however, can go ahead—if the society agrees to it?”
Flora stilled; she hadn’t realised that tomorrow’s dance was up for debate. She suddenly felt very glad that Mrs Mifford had forced—er, invited—her to attend.
“We should hold off,” Mrs Canards decided, much to Flora’s horror.
“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.