Chapter Thirteen
CHARLOTTE COULD STILL not quite believe that she’d almost been kissed.
If her uncle had not interrupted her and Gabriel in the vestry the day before, then her lips—she brought a hand to them even now—would finally know the feel of a man’s upon them.
She did not blame her uncle his badly timed interruption—not one bit.
That morning, however, when she caught him prowling the larder in search of mince-pies, she neglected to inform him that Nora had hidden a fresh batch in the sewing-tin.
A man who interrupted near-kisses must, Charlotte decided, learn restraint somehow.
After all, if she must, then so must he.
“You’ll find them,” she assured him, reaching for her cloak from the back of the kitchen chair. “A little delayed gratification never hurt anyone.”
Mr Mifford frowned thoughtfully at that remark, but she only offered him her most innocent smile.
“I’m off to the village,” she said, her fingers already closing around the kitchen-door latch. “I need to call at Mrs Thorne’s for a tincture—my aunt has a dreadful headache. Would you believe that when one imbibes too much medicinal wine, it has quite the opposite effect?”
“How unfortunate,” her uncle returned, dryly amused.
Charlotte smiled and called goodbye, then stepped out into the chill December morning, where frost crackled beneath her half-boots. She set off for the village at speed, determined to out pace both the cold and her fluttering heart.
The Comte had stroked her cheek with a tenderness she would never have credited in so large a man.
He had gazed at her with fire burning in his deep brown eyes—and he had almost kissed her!
The Comte de Roche—exceedingly tall, devastatingly handsome, and obscenely wealthy—had wanted to kiss her. A nobody!
Was it possible she was dreaming?
Spinsters of her advanced age, she reflected, were sometimes prone to fancies—seeing things that were not quite there, imagining things that most certainly were not offered.
She pinched herself—hard—beneath her coat.
It smarted at once. Definitely not dreaming.
She felt a thrill of excitement at knowing it was real but this was quickly accompanied by a nervous flutter of fear as she wondered—what might he have intended for after the kiss? Had he simply wished to steal a liberty, or did he wish to marry her?
Charlotte frowned, pulling her cape close around her. Her heart was too afraid to allow hope for something as outlandishly impossible as marriage proposals at her age, so she pushed the idea from her mind as she hurried along her path.
“Good morning, Miss Mifford,” Mrs Cleeve greeted Charlotte, as she passed her on Plumpton’s main street. Though her greeting was polite enough, her face was pinched into a frown, and Charlotte decided it was safer to return her simple salute, rather than try draw her into conversation.
She continued on past Mr Hamley’s butcher shop and Mr McDowell’s greengrocer, to Plumpton’s newest business, Flora’s apothecary. The sign above the door was freshly painted and behind the mullioned windows was displayed rows of shiny jars and tincture bottles.
Charlotte pushed the door open and was glad to find Flora alone, behind the counter pouring over a book.
“Miss Mifford,” Flora smiled as she looked up, “How can I help you?”
“I’m in need of something to cure a headache,” Charlotte answered, glad to be out of the biting cold. “My aunt woke up with a thundering one, quite unexpectedly.”
“’Tis the season for unexpected headaches,” Flora grinned. “I’ve a tissane of milk thistle and ginger that might aid her.”
She stood lightly from her stool and bustled to one of the shelves, where she selected a small amber bottle.
“She should add ten drops to a glass of water and repeat the process over the course of the day, until she finds relief,” Flora instructed, as she wrapped the bottle in brown paper.
“The entire household shall find relief when she does,” Charlotte shared with a grin, as she counted out coins from her purse.
She had just handed them over to Flora, when the door of the shop opened again, admitting Miss Weaver and Miss Morton.
Charlotte stifled a sigh of longing. Miss Morton looked beautiful in a spencer of dove-grey velvet, while Miss Weaver wore a deep green pelisse, with an elaborate scarf wound about her throat in the French style.
Together they looked as though they had stepped straight from the pages of La Belle Assemblée—effortlessly elegant and impossibly stylish.
Charlotte could only hope for a fraction of their polish…or their poise.
“What’s that smell?” Miss Morton whispered, wrinkling her pretty, button nose.
To her credit, Miss Weaver looked faintly embarrassed by her friend.
“Herbs and the like,” she murmured, before stepping forward with a polite nod to Flora. “I’ve come to collect my salve, Mrs Thorne.”
Flora smiled and went to fetch it. Charlotte, ever discreet, moved aside to offer the seamstress a little privacy.
Unfortunately, her movement brought her straight into Miss Morton’s line of sight.
“Why, Miss Mifford!” the girl exclaimed, her smile sugary and coy. “What a surprise to see you out and about. If I knew that there was a book running on me at The Ring, I’d never dare leave the house.”
She paused, clearly hoping to see Charlotte flinch.
But Mrs Canards had already broken that piece of gossip, and Charlotte merely smiled.
“I don’t see why I should feel embarrassed, Miss Morton.
It’s the gentleman gamblers who ought to.
They obviously didn’t purchase any of your instructive samplers at the bazaar—though I don’t believe many people did, did they? ”
Miss Morton’s pretty face soured into a scowl.
Just then Miss Weaver turned, a small paper parcel in hand, entirely unaware of the exchange.
“Are you ready, Miss Morton?” she asked brightly.
“Did you get your bruise salve?” Miss Morton confirmed, before adding in mild exasperation, “Honestly, you’re so clumsy. Come, let us away to the haberdasher’s—I’m in desperate need of a new ribbon for the assembly.”
The two ladies swept to the door in a rustle of velvet and perfume. Charlotte waited a beat, then turned to meet Flora’s gaze.
“Chamomile barley drop?” Flora asked, sliding a jar across the counter. “Good for frazzled nerves.”
Charlotte took one glumly and popped it into her mouth.
Though she hadn’t let Miss Morton see, she was quite put out to learn that the entire village knew of the foolish betting book in The Ring.
How mortifying it would be if the Comte were to disappear after Twelfth Night without so much as a backward glance.
“If it’s any reassurance, Miss Mifford,” Flora said gently, “My husband declares he’s never seen the Comte de Roche smile so often in all his life. Men always smile when they’re in love—they can’t help it.”
“Oh, he’s not in love with me,” Charlotte protested quickly, though her cheeks turned pink. “But thank you, Flora. And thank you for the tincture. I’d best be off home before Mrs Mifford upsets Nora and we end up with burnt beef for dinner.”
Charlotte left the apothecary and hurried down the frosted path. Outside The Ring o’ Bells, she encountered Mrs Cleeve once more—this time headed in the opposite direction.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Cleeve,” Charlotte called pleasantly.
The other woman managed a stiff nod before sweeping past, her expression so sour it might have curdled milk.
“Face like a thundercloud, that one,” remarked Mr Marrowbone, who had followed behind the schoolmaster’s wife. “A little birdie whispered she’s in quite a taking with her husband—stayed out all night on Christmas Eve, he did.”
Charlotte blinked at him in astonishment, her mind leaping at once to the murder of Mr Postlethwaite. Surely the constable had drawn the same connection?
She stared at him pointedly for a moment, though he seemed entirely unaware.
“As much as I’d like to stay gossiping with you all day, Miss Mifford,” he said cheerfully, “There’s a pint with my name on it behind the bar.”
He tipped his hat to her, then sauntered inside, whistling a merry tune.
Charlotte rolled her eyes and continued on her way home. Oh, to be as carefree as the constable, she thought. She doubted Mr Marrowbone had given the murder a single thought since breakfast.
She had just turned the corner by The King’s Head Inn when a gleaming phaeton drew up beside her, its fine chestnut horse tossing its head in the frosty air.
“Charlotte!” cried a familiar voice. “Do hop in, dear—I’ll drop you at the house.”
Mary, Duchess of Northcott, beamed down from the high seat, her cheeks pink with cold. “Though I can’t call in on Mama,” she added, “It takes four footmen to help me down from this contraption. I’ve gone so enormous.”
She was, indeed, enormous—her wool pelisse buttoned only as far as the top of her rounded stomach.
Charlotte accepted the hand offered her and climbed up beside her cousin, who immediately urged the horse forward with surprising energy for a woman in her condition. After exchanging pleasantries for a moment, Mary honed in on one of her favourite topics—fashion.
“Tell me,” Mary said brightly, “What do you intend to wear to the assembly?”
“Oh—one of my usual dresses, I suppose,” Charlotte replied with a shrug.
Mary turned to her, aghast. Charlotte flinched, praying her cousin would return her attention to the road.
“One of your usual dresses?” Mary whispered, her expression pained. “Charlotte, you can’t possibly! Jane tells me the Comte de Roche is quite smitten with you—she’s so convinced he’ll propose that she’s made Ivo place a wager on your being engaged by Twelfth Night!”
Charlotte blinked, torn between mortification and disbelief. Even her own family had joined in on the betting!
“And Mama,” Mary continued cheerfully, “Has declared you and the Comte completely unsuited—which I choose to take as an excellent omen. Now, about the assembly; I have a dozen gowns at home that don’t fit me anymore—you can pick one out tonight at supper.”
“I didn’t know I was invited to supper,” Charlotte replied, clutching on to the door of the phaeton as Mary rounded a corner with particular enthusiasm.
“Mama should have told you,” the duchess huffed, as she pulled the reins taut. “I told her last night that I wanted to host everyone one last time before the baby arrives.”
Charlotte wondered if she had told Mrs Mifford before or after her medicinal wine, though she tactfully did not voice her suspicions. Her mind, instead, began to wonder just who the word everyone might encompass.
“The Comte will be there,” Mary said, as if reading her thoughts.
Charlotte did her best to appear indifferent, though her heart gave a most unhelpful leap—not merely at the prospect of sharing a moment or two alone with him, but because she could tell him what she had learned about Mr Cleeve’s mysterious absence on the night of the murder.
Mary slowed the phaeton as they approached Primrose Cottage, the chestnut horse snorting little clouds in protest. She drew up neatly before the red-painted gate and gave Charlotte a dazzling smile.
“Do tell Mama I’m sorry I couldn’t drop in,” she said, “But it would take a system of ropes and a pulley to get me down.”
Charlotte laughed as she climbed carefully to the ground. “I’ll tell her you sent your love.”
“Don’t,” Mary called, flicking the reins with a mischievous grin. “That would only make her suspicious. Until this evening, Charlotte!”
With that, the duchess urged her horse on—the phaeton disappearing down the lane at an alarming pace. Charlotte was rather glad that Northcott wasn’t there to witness his wife’s departure; the protective duke would surely have a fit of apoplexy.
She lingered by the little red gate, basking in her happiness a few moments longer before braving her aunt. All at once, everything seemed to be falling into place: the clues, the new gown, and a dashingly handsome Comte who—unless she was very much mistaken—wanted to kiss her.
She pinched herself once more, just to be certain she wasn’t dreaming.
It smarted and she smiled.