Chapter Eleven
SARAH HAD SPENT much of her childhood in Primrose Cottage, for the Mifford sisters had made better playmates than her brothers. As she pushed the gate open the next morning, she realised that it had been quite some time since she had visited the vicarage.
When she called on Jane and Mary now, the visits took place in grand settings. She was quite glad to return to the quaint, cozy charm of Primrose Cottage.
“You’re certain it’s Mr Mifford you wish to see?” Nora, the maid-of-all-work questioned, as she led Sarah through the cluttered hallway to the vicar’s library.
“I just have a question about last Sunday’s sermon,” Sarah fibbed.
Nora’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her mob-cap and her eyes none-too-discreetly dropped to Sarah’s stomach.
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to expound on it, if he can recall it,” the maid muttered, as she rapped on the closed door.
“I’ll put the kettle on while you’re in there,” Nora continued, in a whisper. “Miss Mifford is at home and I’m certain she’d love to sit down for a chat when you’re done.”
Sarah grinned; she guessed it was Nora rather than Charlotte who’d appreciate the chance to sip tea and gossip.
After a few moments and some ominous banging sounds, the door was eventually opened by Mr Mifford. He raised his bushy white eyebrows in surprise when Nora announced the reason for Sarah’s visit.
“Er, do come in, Miss Hughes,” he waved a hand in invitation. “Though you’ll have to allow me a few moments to search for my notes.”
Sarah followed him inside the overstuffed room, closing the door behind her. Once she was certain they were alone, she gave a discreet cough.
“Well, actually, Mr Mifford,” she said, her cheeks burning. “I haven’t actually called to discuss last week’s sermon.”
“Well, thank heaven for that,” the vicar chuckled. “I do worry when people start paying attention to my Sunday witterings, instead of dreaming of their roast dinner. It’s usually a sign something is very awry.”
“Something is awry, I’m afraid,” Sarah sighed, “I’m afraid I might have caused a mess for Mrs Bridges.”
Mr Mifford again raised his brows in surprise and Sarah quickly explained everything to him. Her father’s unfortunate link to the murder, the decision to investigate with Lord Deverell, and—finally—how Mrs Bridges appeared linked in some way to Mr Hardwick.
“If only I knew what it was the pair had argued over, then I’m certain I could clear her name,” Sarah sighed, as she finished.
“Mrs Bridges is made of sterner stuff than you—or her granddaughter, for that matter—seem to think,” Mr Mifford replied gently.
Sarah twisted the material of her skirt with worried hands; his words had gone some way to ease her guilt but only somewhat.
“The truth of what Mrs Bridges and Mr Hardwick argued over will out eventually,” the vicar continued, firmly.
“As the truth always does. What I would advise you, Miss Hughes, is to stop worrying about things which have not yet—and may never—come to pass. Anxiety tends to wreak havoc on one’s digestion. ”
“Thank you, Mr Mifford,” Sarah replied, though inwardly she wondered if the vicar knew more than he was letting on.
His answers, while designed to soothe, had also been slightly evasive.
For a moment, she wondered if Mrs Bridges had confessed something to Mr Mifford, but as the seal of confession was particular only to priests, she dismissed the idea.
It would not do to accuse Mr Mifford of being a Papist, simply because she did not entirely like his answers!
“So, you’re investigating the murder with Lord Deverell,” Mr Mifford commented, as he stood to escort Sarah from the tiny, overfilled room.
“In my experience, that usually leads to marriage. Thank you for forewarning me that I will again have to suffer my wife gloating about her matchmaking skills.”
“Oh, I. Oh, we. Oh, it’s not…” Sarah stammered, flustered at the sudden change of topic.
“Of course, dear,” Mr Mifford said kindly, as he showed her out the door. “Now, run along to the kitchen and see if you can tear Nora away from her duties for a cup of tea. I’m sure the poor girl needs a break, you know how devoted she is to her work.”
With a wink, the vicar disappeared back into his library, leaving Sarah to make her way to the kitchen. There, she found Nora and Charlotte already seated at the table with a plate of crumpets and a pot of tea between them.
“Miss Hughes,” Charlotte greeted her with a smile, “We’re just discussing romance troubles—do sit down and lend us your head.”
“I’m hardly experienced when it comes to romance,” Sarah demurred, “Though I am always happy to lend an ear.”
“It’s young Mr Henderson,” Charlotte began, pouring Sarah a cup from the pot. “We both agree on his handsomeness but his vices leave a lot to be desired.”
“Vices?” Sarah raised a brow.
“He’s fond of drinking, gambling, and general carousing,” Charlotte explained, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “He spends more than he earns and frequently ends up in bouts of fisticuffs after close at The Ring.”
“Indeed, he does not sound like the type of chap a girl should set her sights on,” Sarah answered cautiously, mentally noting to have a quiet word with Anne when she got home.
“Oh, he’s just misunderstood,” Nora protested, her eyes dreamy. “What he really needs is a bit of responsibility—like, say, a wife to support and a few bairns.”
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment to better help stifle the epithet on her lips. It was a common affliction amongst young ladies to believe that marriage might fix a wayward man.
“Wild men often grow into old disappointments,” Sarah cautioned Nora.
Then, seeing that she was not listening, and knowing how superficial young girls could be, she added.
“And Mr Henderson is cut off the same block as his father. You need to imagine yourself twenty years from now, married to a balding man with no money and a big paunch.”
Nora frowned; in her daydreams of Mr Henderson, she had obviously not imagined him aged.
“It’s no matter,” Nora sighed, as she reached out for another crumpet. “He only has eyes for Miss Morton. I’d need a dozen of Flora Bridges’ love potions to tear his gaze away from that milksop.”
Sarah made a face to indicate some displeasure at the descriptor of poor Miss Morton, though she couldn’t bring herself to scold Nora. Miss Morton did, admittedly, put one to mind of soggy bread—sweet, pale, and lacking in bite.
“Do they work then, these potions?” Charlotte interjected, fascinated by the idea.
“I couldn’t say; my wages don’t extend to such frivolities,” Nora was glum, then her eyes lit up with mischief. “And if I was Miss Bridges, I’d concentrate more on brewing cures for madness, than love potions.”
Though Sarah did not want to encourage Nora to gossip, she knew that servants often heard things others did not.
“Whatever do you mean?” she questioned.
“Just that some people are saying old Mrs Bridges has lost some of her faculties,” the maid shrugged. “Mrs Canards said she saw her hanging a rowan cross off her front gate and when she asked her what it was for, she said it was to ward off bad luck.”
“Well, it obviously didn’t work if Mrs Canards stopped to chat,” Charlotte observed, through a mouthful of crumpet.
“And she’s burning rosemary and mugwort in the hearth,” Nora continued, obviously put-out that her audience remained un-scandalised. “You can smell it when you walk past. And—”
She paused now, for dramatic effect.
“She was seen wandering the London Road late at night, lantern in hand, on the very night that Silas Hardwick was murdered.”
“Who said that?” Sarah’s tone was sharp. Characters like Mrs Bridges often attracted unsubstantiated whispers.
“Agnes from the bakehouse saw her, when she was driving home from visiting her sister,” Nora was defensive. “Said she was hobbling around by the fork in the road and when Agnes stopped to offer her a lift, she said she was just out looking for an escaped chicken.”
“Perhaps she was just looking for an escaped chicken,” Sarah ventured, massaging her temples to ease her growing headache.
“All I know is that a man ended up dead, not an hour later,” Nora shrugged. “Though Mr Henderson seems to think it was Mr Leek. He said you can’t trust a man with more interest in peonies than petticoats.”
Nora paused for a moment, her expression confused. “Though I don’t exactly know what he means by that. You wouldn’t want a man to be interested in petticoats, would you?”
“I think the more pertinent point to note, Nora,” Sarah replied, skimming over her question, “Is that you shouldn’t be in the company of a man who thinks he can mention petticoats to you at all.”
On that note, the tea ended. Sarah thanked her hostesses for their company and the delicious crumpets, then left Primrose Cottage via the back door. She picked her way down the garden path back out to to the road, then set off in the direction of the village.
The usual cast of characters loitered around main street.
Mr McDowell was outside his shop, leaning against the door-frame as he puffed on his pipe.
Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling lingered near the village green, watching the comings and goings of all.
While Mr Marrowbone had placed a stool outside the door of The Ring and was enjoying the sun whilst he sipped his pint.
Sarah could not help but cast a glance through the window of the butcher’s as she passed.
She was rewarded with a glimpse of young Mr Henderson; tall, blonde, and gifted with a face that could only have been carved by the gods.
Sarah could see why any young lady might be taken by his good-looks, but she fervently prayed that both Nora and Anne might turn their attentions elsewhere.
A kind man would be better, Sarah thought; one who was thoughtful, considerate, and knew what it truly was to love.
It was only when the attributes she was ascribing to Nora and Anne’s new imaginary paramour began to include dark hair, grey eyes, and a fine pair of shoulders, did Sarah realise she was picturing Lord Deverell.
She gave herself a little shake as she continued on over the low stone bridge that led to the London Road.
It wouldn’t do at all if she was to fall in love with an earl who hadn’t the faintest of interest in her.
Though, while she tried to scold herself that she was being fanciful, Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if—despite her lack of experience—she was interpreting the earl’s words and actions correctly.
Surely a man did not speak so openly and eloquently about love to just any woman?
Nor hold her eyes for far longer than necessary, or gaze at her wistfully whilst discussing children.
Or take such obvious pleasure in teasing her; as Sarah knew from her brothers, teasing was a very male way to express affection.
She reached the end of the village and crossed the low stone bridge that led to home.
The London Road was quiet, the only sound that of the birds bustling in the hedgerows.
Sarah had just paused to admire a yellowhammer perched on a branch, calling cheerfully for a “little bit of bread no cheese”, when the sound of shouting up ahead drowned out the bird’s call.
Startled, Sarah lifted the hem of her skirts and took off at a run.
The shouting, she soon realised, was coming from Mrs Bridges’ cottage.
It sat a little back from the road, a squat building with a thatched roof and a red door, its garden a chaotic riot of colour.
Sarah slowed her pace as she neared, just in time to see Mr Treswell stumbling backwards, his face ashen.
“What on earth?” Sarah cried, then she halted her step as she caught sight of Mrs Bridges standing at her front door, holding a shot-gun that was aimed squarely at the poor solicitor.
“She’s mad,” Mr Treswell cried, as he careened down the lane.
Mrs Bridges watched for a moment, to make certain he was gone, before turning back inside the cottage and closing the door, without a word of acknowledgment to Sarah.
Mr Treswell was, Sarah was forced to uncomfortably concede, correct on that score. Mrs Bridges did seem to have gone mad, but did that mean she was a murderer?