Chapter Nine
THE MORNING FOLLOWING the dinner in Crabb Hall found Sarah out of sorts.
It had nothing to do with the food served the night before—all five courses had been delicious—but rather the uncertainty she felt about Lord Deverell.
And, more dangerously, the certainty she felt about his noble mien, broad shoulders, and the unmistakable thrill in her stomach when he teased her.
Therein lay the nub of her anxiety: was the earl sincere in his flirtation, or was it all just a lark to him?
She was not Mary or Jane; she had not spent a season in London and did not know how the aristocracy played their games.
The only thing that was certain, was that the earl himself had told her that he’d feigned an interest in her to divert Mrs Mifford.
And now she was left wondering whether she was witnessing him being hoist by his own petard—or whether it was her fanciful heart that was at risk of destruction.
Following breakfast, she sat down with the maid-of-all-work, Anne, to plan out the next week’s menus.
“So, that’s roast chicken Wednesday, cold chicken Thursday, and pie on Friday?” Sarah said, her mind not truly on the task at hand.
“Aye, and the ham on Saturday’ll see us through ‘till Monday,” Anne confirmed. “But I’ll need to pop down to the village to fetch a bit of suet before I start.”
“There’s a full jar in the larder,” Sarah protested, with confusion.
Anne’s gaze dropped to her lap though her pink ears gave her away.
“He told me he’d given it up,” Sarah said, laughing. “That cold he had over winter knocked him for six, and he swore he’d rather go forever without a single pinch of snuff than suffer the ignominy of having Dr Bates call again.”
“He just wants a small box,” Anne said with a helpless shrug. “A man needs his vices, Miss Hughes.”
And, as that man was the one who paid Anne’s wages, Sarah guessed that her protests would not be heeded.
“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Sarah commented dryly, as—with impeccable timing—her father materialised at the kitchen door.
Mr Hughes glanced over his shoulder to ascertain there was no one behind him, before turning back to Sarah with innocent confusion.
“I’m certain I don’t know who you’re speaking of,” her father commented piously. “I just came to give Anne a few coins; she’s off to buy suet.”
Sarah rolled her eyes as her father deposited a small coin-purse on the table with a none-too-discreet wink to the maid.
“I’ll just fetch my shawl,” Anne squeaked, as she pocketed the purse. She fled the table, leaving Sarah to cast a rather droll look her father’s way.
“What?” he inquired, all innocence.
“You shouldn’t ask Anne to lie on your behalf, that’s what,” Sarah scolded, though her tone was more amused than anything else.
“She enjoys the subterfuge and the chance to ogle the lad in the butcher’s shop,” her father smiled, giving a helpless shrug. “One needs one’s vices.”
“You’re as bad as each other,” Sarah huffed. “Next thing we know, Anne will be eloping with the butcher’s boy and you’ll be laid up with a lung complaint.”
“Do not worry about Anne and I, we’re made of sterner stuff than you might think,” her father answered before abruptly changing the subject with an awkward clearing of his throat. “I had Mrs Mifford in my ear for much of last night.”
“Should I prepare an onion poultice?” Sarah managed a note of lightness, though inside her heart sank. She knew where this conversation was heading and she felt ashamed that her father had been drawn into the tangle of lies that she and Lord Deverell had woven.
“For once her whisperings were sweet,” her father smiled. “She informs me that this Lord Deverell has set his cap at you and reckons we shall soon hear the sound of wedding bells.”
“Well he has said nothing of the sort to me of such intentions,” she answered, for this was the truth.
“She seems quite certain,” Mr Hughes insisted.
“And I believe she means well, Sarah. She became quite misty eyed at the idea of playing matchmaking mama to you, in your own mother’s absence.
She wants to see you happy—as do I. Your whole life is in front of you, dearest, I don’t want you to feel that you have to sacrifice your happiness to look after me. ”
“You’re just trying to marry me off so you can enjoy your snuff in peace,” Sarah countered.
Her father chuckled but Sarah’s own smiled wavered.
She felt riddled with guilt; not just for her father but for Mrs Mifford too.
She might be overbearing, interfering, and a touch theatrical, but Sarah didn’t doubt that her desire to see Sarah happily wed was sincere.
How thoroughly wicked she felt for deceiving her.
“While I don’t relish being thought a murderer, I can’t deny the timing has worked out well.” her father continued with a wicked smile. “I can at least be certain that this Lord Deverell will be on his best behaviour around you.”
“Father,” Sarah protested, both horrified and amused.
“One finds solace where one can,” Mr Hughes was philosophical. “Now, why don’t you bring Anne to the village in the gig and get yourself a few new ribbons while you’re there.”
He reached into his pocket to extract a few more coins and, despite her protests, Sarah soon found herself steering the family gig toward Plumpton.
The village was alive with activity; Tuesday was a market day and various sellers had set up stall around the village green. Anne quickly disappeared arm-in-arm with Nora—the Mifford’s maid—leaving Sarah to peruse the stalls alone.
A packwoman walked by, her tray strung around her neck and bursting with colourful ribbons and yarn. Sarah found herself drawn to the bright offerings, though she felt a rush of silliness for thinking that a simple thread of pink ribbon might help her beguile an earl.
“Matches your colouring, my rose,” the woman said, as Sarah finally decided upon one of dusky pink satin. The woman’s words brought to mind Lord Deverell’s observation that she was an English rose and the purchase now felt touched by fate.
Sarah parted with her coins, offered the woman a word of thanks, and rushed away feeling a trifle mad.
Romance really did addle the brain if it made one feel poetic whilst buying ribbon, she thought wryly.
Determined to plant her feet firmly back on the ground—and keep them there—she wandered over to the least romantic of stalls she could find.
“Tripe?” the fishmonger called hopefully, holding up a glistening, greyish hunk of fish for her to admire.
She declined politely and moved on, inwardly acknowledging that between the ribbon and her fanciful heart, she’d had her fill of old tripe.
The other stalls held little draw; Sarah wandered aimlessly from one to the other, until a familiar face caught her eye.
“Flora,” she called as she sighted Crabb Hall’s maid wandering ahead of her, a wicker basket under arm.
“Miss Hughes,” Flora halted, her gaze a little shifty. “I’m just out to fetch a few bits for the kitchens.”
She shifted the weight of her basket from one hip to the other and, as she did so, Sarah discerned the definite sound of jars clinking within. Flora, Sarah guessed, was supplementing her income by selling a few lotions and potions while she shopped.
“Have you anything to help clear the lungs?” Sarah asked, with a nod to the basket. “My father has taken up snuff again and I’d like to have something in the medicine chest for when he inevitably comes down with a cough from it.”
“I’ve horehound syrup but it’s very bitter,” Flora said, rifling through the basket.
“Mind you it draws the phlegm right out. If you want to stop a cough before it develops, then I’ve a jar of thyme and comfrey steeped in goosefat for rubbing on the chest. There’s one of grandma’s secret ingredients in there as well. ”
“I’ll take the salve,” Sarah decided, “He makes the worst of patients, best to try prevent rather than cure. How is your grandmother?”
Sarah added this question in casually, as she rummaged in her purse for some coin.
“Still in a foul temper,” Flora shared, checking the muslin lid on the jar before handing it over. “I thought with Mr Hardwick gone she might return to her old-self but she’s still like a cat on a griddle.”
Sarah blinked; she’d expected to have to fish for information, so Flora’s candidness momentarily upended her equilibrium.
“Did Mr Hardwick do something to upset your grandmother?” Sarah questioned, once she had recovered herself.
“He called on her when he first moved in,” Flora confessed. “I know because he was just leaving as I arrived for a visit. I don’t know what transpired between them but she’s been in foul form ever since.”
Flora paused, then glanced nervously at Sarah, perhaps realising that she should not have shared that her grandmother held a mysterious grievance against a recently murdered man.
“I think, perhaps, she may be entering her dotage.” the maid ventured, in an attempt to obfuscate. “The say a loss of faculties as you age can change the temperament. Everyone vexes her these days, even little Mr Tresswell. Why, he’s no more threatening than a spectacled dormouse.”
Sarah smiled at the image; the diminutive solicitor did have a mousey look about him. Still, she was somewhat troubled, not least because she had clearly upset Flora.
“It might be the heat either,” Sarah waved her hand to encompass the blue sky above. “It has been oppressive of late and would put anyone in a bad mood—never mind someone of more advanced years.”
She knew she was grasping at straws, for old Mrs Bridges was as hardy as any dockweed and twice as stubborn. She was the least likely person to be bothered by a balmy day.
“Mayhap,” Flora agreed, though Sarah could see that her dark eyes were still troubled. The girl then glanced across at the costermonger shouting his wares and turned to offer Sarah an apologetic smile.
“I’d best go about my work, Miss Hughes,” she stated. “Mr Allen is a stickler for time-keeping. He knows down to the minute how long it takes to walk to and from Crabb Hall and he’ll dock my wages if he thinks I was dallying.”
“Well, I don’t want to get you into trouble,” Sarah answered, though her choice of phrase brought a stir of guilt. If the investigation was to reveal Mrs Bridges as the culprit, then Sarah would be visiting a world of trouble upon the Bridges family.
The pair parted and Sarah set off in search of Anne.
She nodded and smiled at various acquaintances, though did not stop to chat.
After a few futile minutes of searching, Sarah realised that Anne would not be found near any of the market stalls.
Recalling the earlier conversation with her father, she made her way across the green to the main street.
She immediately spotted Anne and Nora lingering near the butcher’s shop. Both girls had removed their mobcaps and were engaging in so much hair-flicking, that Sarah worried they might be surrounded by an invisible swarm of flies.
“Outrageous,” Mrs Canards—who Sarah had not noticed loitering nearby—called over, with a pointed nod to the two girls. Beside her, Mrs Wickling nodded mutely in furious agreement.
“They’re not doing anything wrong,” Sarah protested, crossly.
“They’ve been making cow-eyes all morning through the window at the young Henderson lad,” Mrs Canards answered, pursing her small mouth in disapproval. “If they’re not careful, he’ll have them trussed and hanging in the window for someone’s dinner.”
Sarah bit back a quip about rump-roasts for she didn’t think Mrs Canards the right audience. Lord Deverell on the other hand…
Her eyes must have glazed over as she imagined the earl’s wicked grin if she had dared say aloud her bawdy joke, for Mrs Canards gave a very annoyed cough to catch her attention.
“As I was saying, Miss Hughes,” she blustered, once certain Sarah was listening. “You’ll need to have a word with the girl. She obviously thinks she can behave as she likes, now that she’s employed by a murderer.”
Sarah reeled as though she had been slapped. She opened her mouth to defend her father but before she had a chance, a cold voice cut through the warm summer air.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs Canards, but that is quite enough.”
All three women turned in unison to see Mrs Vickery striding towards them, a basket looped over one stout arm. Her dark eyes were narrowed, and her entire bearing crackled with indignation.
“This is a village green, not a court of law. If you’ve evidence to present, take it to the magistrate,” the housekeeper continued, with a sniff.
“Otherwise, if you have a surfeit of energy to expend, I suggest you direct it to your rose bushes instead of spreading malicious gossip. They’d more black spot than bloom from what I could see when I passed. ”
It was Mrs Canards’ turn to reel back in horror; she prided herself on having won Plumpton’s annual gardening prize every year for as long as anyone could remember.
Apart, of course, from the infamous year when her bushes had been mysteriously sabotaged.
Even her fiercest—and numerous—detractors had agreed that the competition had been unfair that year, and the eventual winner a victor in title only.
“I have never been so grievously insulted in all my life,” Mrs Canards stuttered, drawing her shawl around her as though it might protect her from any more sharp words.
“I find that hard to believe,” the Long Acres’ housekeeper snorted in response.
“Well, I never,” Mrs Canards—for want of a better retort—replied, aghast. With an air of great indignation, the ghoulish gossip stuck her nose in the air and stalked off, trailed by an equally scandalised Mrs Wickling.
“Thank you, Mrs Vickery,” Sarah ventured when they were gone. “It was good of you to defend my father, though I fear you have made an enemy of Mrs Canards.”
“She made an enemy of me long ago,” the housekeeper dismissed, as she moved her basket from one arm to the other. “I cannot abide her prattle. I fear my sharp tongue was less in defence of your father, and more to give vent to spleen long pent up.”
“Er, well intentions aside, I am still grateful,” Sarah answered, thrown a little by her unusual frankness.
“And I am grateful that I shall not have to bear witness to her mistreating her Lancaster Reds on my walk to the village,” Mrs Vickery finished, with great satisfaction. “So we both benefit, Miss Hughes.”
With that, and a curt nod, the housekeeper marched off into the butcher’s, leaving Sarah blinking after her in bemused silence.