Chapter Fifteen #2
When she was met with no objections she began. “First, we have a request from Mr Mifford that he be excused from judging the annual pie competition at the Harvest Fair,” Lady Deverell cleared her throat delicately. “We can’t blame him, after what happened between Mrs Deveraux and Mrs Coleman.”
A ripple of tutting travelled around the circle.
Charlotte leaned eagerly toward Flora and whispered, far too loudly, “Ripped her cap right off, so she did—Mrs Coleman! You don’t expect that from a lady of seventy.”
Several ladies blanched, though Mrs Canards looked positively thrilled at the reminder.
Lady Deverell ignored Miss Mifford’s interruption and continued on—a request for donations of jam and preserves for hampers for invalid soldiers, a reminder that the list for cleaning the vestry at St Mary’s was far too sparse, and a call for volunteers for the choir.
“And lastly,” the countess continued, her voice turning very dry as she extracted a letter from her pocket. “A letter has reached me informing me that Mrs Keating has only had the thatch on the front of her roof refreshed—the writer preferred to remain anonymous.”
Her gaze landed squarely on Mrs Canards, who widened her eyes with exaggerated innocence.
“One must commend those who care about the appearance of the village,” she muttered, primly. “Even when viewed from behind.”
Flora bit back a smile. It struck her that Plumpton hardly needed murder to be lively—the Parish Ladies’ Society was quite equal to the task.
When at last the meeting was called to a close, Flora lingered to help Charlotte tidy away the chairs. The Duchess of Northcott, excused from such duties owing to her condition, dawdled too, eager to chatter about the assembly.
“And what will you wear tomorrow, Miss Bridges?” she asked brightly, after detailing her own choice of outfit for the event.
Flora coloured faintly; she was unaccustomed to speaking with anyone who had more than one option when it came to dresses for assemblies.
“I thought, perhaps, the same gown that I wore to dinner?” Flora ventured, carefully. She hoped she had given the impression that she had a wardrobe full of dresses at home.
The Duchess of Northcott saw straight through her ruse.
“While that was exquisite,” she replied delicately, beckoning Mrs Mifford over.
“I rather think for the assembly you should have something new. Captain Thorne is attending, Mama confirmed it. I have a lovely lavender silk gown with a silver sash that will look lovely with your colouring. I can’t wear it with this belly—but you must. I’ll send it over to Brackenfield with one of the footmen later. ”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” Flora began to protest, embarrassed by her generosity.
“You could, and you will,” Mrs Mifford cut in, her smile as fixed as granite.
Much like her invitation to the meeting itself, refusal did not appear to be an option. Flora thanked them both, heart thrumming with excitement, and once the hall was tidy, slipped away so she could compose herself.
She half-hoped to spot Captain Thorne waiting outside, but as she passed through the village there was no sight of him. With a sigh, she crossed the bridge that led home, choosing the quieter path by the river for her journey.
She had been ambling alongside the Churn for about ten minutes when the figures of Mrs Pinnock and Miss Vale appeared, out for a constitutional.
“Miss Bridges,” Mrs Pinnock boomed, while Miss Vale trailed miserably behind, clutching her shawl. “Or is it Miss Gardiner? Sir Ambrose always referred to you as the latter—he said you were Harold Gardiner’s granddaughter, a fine man indeed.”
Flora stilled as the elderly woman surveyed her from top to toe; her imperious gaze making her feel like a maid again. She straightened her spine, reminding herself that Mrs Pinnock was very likely a murderess—a far worse crime than having once been in service.
“Yes, my grandfather was Harold Gardiner,” she answered cautiously. “Were you well acquainted?”
“Indeed,” Mrs Pinnock declared with relish. “I knew him through the Bath Philanthropical Society. A fine man—he believed charity should be earned, not handed out to anyone come begging, cup in hand.”
Flora was unsurprised to learn that her grandfather’s brand of philanthropy had been somewhat short on actual generosity.
“The society is a marvellous way to make acquaintances,” Mrs Pinnock pressed on. “Miss Vale’s parents were members, and it is how she came to be in my employ. Their membership proved most fortuitous for her. Would you consider joining?”
From the pained look on Miss Vale’s face, Flora rather thought she did not consider that she had reaped as many fruits from the connection as her mistress seemed to think.
“I will think on it,” Flora answered carefully, reluctant to commit.
“Very good,” Mrs Pinnock nodded with approval. “The connections you make will serve you well—especially now that Sir Ambrose is no longer a member. He was more concerned with petitioning investors for his schemes than with helping the needy.”
There it was—the means by which Sir Ambrose had cheated Mrs Pinnock out of part of her fortune. Flora valiantly schooled her expression, though her heart gave a leap at the discovery.
A cloud drifted across the sun, shadowing the path. Mrs Pinnock gave a frown.
“We must be off before it rains. Miss Vale has the devil’s own time getting my shoes off when they’re wet.”
Miss Vale’s lips pressed tight, resentment flashing in her eyes before she ducked her head. Flora did not blame her. Mrs Pinnock was odious—and, Flora suspected with a shiver, very likely a murderess besides.
Flora offered them a polite farewell and hurried on her way, her steps light with excitement. Tomorrow she could tell Captain Thorne what she had uncovered—at last she was certain that Sir Ambrose had wronged Mrs Pinnock.
The prospect of sharing her discovery thrilled her almost as much as the thought of being held in his arms at the assembly. Almost.