Chapter One #2
Charlotte could almost see her aunt’s inner struggle: the man was not only a potential bachelor but a nobleman as well.
Foreign, undoubtedly—but at nearly five-and-twenty, Mrs Mifford was not of the belief that Charlotte could afford to be particular.
What a pity he appeared far too terrifying for her to meddle with.
“French,” Mr Postlethwaite confirmed, his gaze dropping to the neat pile of letters upon the counter.
Charlotte wondered whether that letter would remain unopened until the afternoon coach arrived—which led her to wonder just how many secrets Plumpton’s postmaster was privy to.
“I hope he’s just passing through,” Mrs Mifford declared with a dramatic shiver. Then, pasting on what Charlotte knew to be one of her most charming smiles, she eyed the postmaster speculatively. “Why, Mr Postlethwaite, is that a new waistcoat?”
To Charlotte’s surprise, the postmaster looked exceedingly pleased by her attention.
“Not new,” he confided, leaning across the counter. “I just had Miss Weaver sew on some fresh buttons.”
“They bring out the colour of your eyes,” Mrs Mifford assured him.
Judging by his expression, Mr Postlethwaite found the compliment as gratifying as Billy—the Miffords’ cat—found having his belly scratched.
“That’s very kind of you to say, Mrs Mifford,” the postmaster replied, grinning from ear to ear.
“Not kind, merely truthful,” she said firmly, before taking Charlotte by the arm. “Alas, we must be along now. I’m sure we’ll see you at the charity bazaar!”
She propelled Charlotte from the shop with a grip one might expect from a pugilist rather than a vicar’s wife.
“I wasn’t aware that you and Mr Postlethwaite were so close,” Charlotte murmured as the door closed behind them.
“Oh, I can’t stand the man. Odious busybody,” Mrs Mifford sighed. “But he’s judging the baking contest at the charity bazaar. And while I’m quite confident my brandy-soaked pudding will win, it doesn’t hurt to butter up the judges, now does it?”
“I cannot think of a more fitting way to celebrate the birth of our Saviour than with a smidge of false flattery,” Charlotte murmured in agreement.
“That’s the spirit, dear,” Mrs Mifford said approvingly, as she began marching them down the main street.
Plumpton was a hive of activity, its narrow street thronged with carts, carriages, and villagers burdened with parcels.
Every doorway was dressed with evergreens—holly, ivy, and laurel—twined around lintels and tied with sprigs of red ribbon, whilst candles already glowed in windows in anticipation of the gathering dusk.
Charlotte could not help but feel a twinge of longing for something she could not quite name. A home, perhaps—a hearth of her own, rather than a place borrowed beside someone else’s fire.
They called out greetings to the villagers they passed—apart from Mrs Canards, who was afforded only a curt nod by Mrs Mifford.
As they neared the end of the main street, they chanced upon Jane, Lady Crabb—Charlotte’s cousin—who wore a fine wool cape and an air of calm that she had decidedly not inherited from her mother.
“Jane,” Mrs Mifford scolded. “You did not tell me you would be out shopping—I would have joined you.”
“I did not expect to be, Mama,” the viscountess replied, with a smile for Charlotte. “We have an unexpected guest.”
Charlotte’s mind instantly flew to the bear—could it be?
“Well, not unexpected,” Jane corrected herself with a frown. “Ivo was expecting him, but he failed to inform me that he had extended the invitation.”
“Men,” Mrs Mifford replied dutifully, and both ladies rolled their eyes in unison.
Though an aging spinster, Charlotte had gleaned from her four cousins that husbands were both a delight and a torment—so one must strive to find one whose endearing qualities outweighed the bad.
“I am merely popping into the butcher’s to see if we can order another goose,” Jane continued. “The cook was most displeased when she learnt she would have to feed another guest—and she has yet to see the size of him. I fear she will pack her things and leave when she does.”
Charlotte’s heart began to beat erratically in her chest—it couldn’t be…
“I dare not tell her that he is French, or she will expire on the spot,” Jane sighed, unaware she was confirming Charlotte’s burgeoning hope.
“French, you say?” Mrs Mifford straightened. “Why, is your guest the Comte de Roche?”
“It is indeed. Are you acquainted?” Jane looked amusedly impressed by her mother.
“We just met him in the receiving office,” Mrs Mifford declared, her expression perplexed. “I say, Jane—do you know if he’s married?”
Jane hesitated, offering Charlotte an apologetic glance before she replied. “He is not.”
Her words hung in the frosty air for a moment as Charlotte braced herself for the inevitable.
Though when it did not come, she realised that she was almost disappointed. Almost.
“Poor man,” Mrs Mifford said at last. “Perhaps he will find someone when he returns to London. Well, Jane, we must not dawdle. I have left Nora in charge of the mince pies, and your father will have persuaded her to give him half a dozen if I do not get back soon. Can you imagine Christmas Day without a mince pie?”
That horrific image propelled Mrs Mifford forward, with Charlotte reluctantly trailing behind, trying to quash her disappointment.
A handsome single gentleman had finally arrived in Plumpton—and for once, her aunt had no interest in meddling.