Page 20 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
Though she tried to keep her mind on the task of subtly interrogating Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling, Mary's thoughts kept drifting back to the moment that Northcott's hand had brushed against hers. Her limbs still felt light, her heart giddy, and she allowed herself a moment to achingly long for Northcott to have done it purposefully--a perfectly ridiculous idea. A duke would never take a fancy to a lady such as she.
You have chosen your path, Mary reminded herself sternly; you shall dedicate yourself only to seeing that your sisters marry well. And the only way to ensure that that would happen, was be by clearing her name.
Mary's step was more certain as she continued on her path. She would do everything in her power to find out just who it was that had killed Mr Parsims--though she could not help but feel that she was overlooking something.
Chapter Six
Although there were a dozen things on the estate to which Henry ought to attend, as he left Mr Parsims' cottage, he decided that the matter of Miss Mifford took top priority on his to-do list.
After all, he told himself, if there was a murderer on the loose in Plumpton, it was his duty to track them down as speedily as possible. He owed it to his tenants, he reassured himself, unwilling to admit even to himself that his mind was not filled with the great and good of Plumpton, but an image of a pretty young woman in a hideous mob-cap instead.
As he urged his steed forward toward Stephen Browne's holding, Henry's hand within his glove burned. It had only briefly brushed off Miss Mifford's own gloved hand, but in all his thirty years, Henry had never felt so moved by such a small connection. A pity that Miss Mifford had not seemed similarly affected; she had not even seemed to note his brief touch and had been all business thereafter.
Perhaps she was a bluestocking, Henry mused, as he guided his horse down Cheddar Lane, toward the Brownes' farmhouse. There were a few such creatures in London; ladies who eschewed men in favour of literature and highbrow pursuits. Having spent far too much time in White's--where after a certain hour the calibre of conversation was really quite low--Henry was not entirely sure he blamed these bluestockings for their choice.
A towering wych elm marked the entrance to the Brownes' holding, and Henry turned off the laneway onto a well-maintained track. He followed this for a minute or so, before arriving at the farmer's cottage, a single-story, yellow brick building, with a roof of bright new thatch.
His arrival had not gone unnoticed; from inside, Henry could hear the sounds of squawking and panic, before the door was flung open and a woman--Mrs Browne, he presumed--emerged.
"Your Grace," she called, near bowing in deference whilst simultaneously attempting to tuck her hair under her cap, "Mr Browne will be out in a moment, he's just making himself presentable."
Henry was mildly pleased to have finally been greeted with the deference owed to his title, and so he offered Mrs Browne a smile, which sent her blushing.
"I shall not take up too much of your husband's time," Henry offered, as he dismounted.
His boots hit the muddy ground--work for his valet later--and Mrs Browne flushed.
"I am sorry," she said, glancing at the mucky yard, "If I had known you were coming, I would have--"
"Cobbled the yard?" Henry grinned, before waving a lazy hand, "Please, there is no need to apologise. I am a country man at heart."
Mrs Browne lifted a hand to her mouth, as though hiding a smile. Henry supposed that in his Hessian boots, spotless buckskin breeches, and merino wool coat that he did not look the part of a country man, but he had not lied. If required, he could roll up his sleeves and muck in with lambing, threshing, or harvesting, as well as the next man.
He was saved from having to fill an awkward silence by the arrival of Mr Browne, whose ears were dusted with soap suds and whose shirt was startlingly clean in comparison to his boots, which were caked in muck.
"Your Grace," Mr Browne stumbled a little as he walked toward him, "To what do we owe the honour?"
He spoke very formally and slowly, as though he had been rehearsing the line, which Henry supposed he had. It wasn't every day that a duke deigned to call on a farmer.
"I wish a word with you if you please," Henry replied, and Browne paled.
Was it guilt which made him turn so ghostly grey?
"Shall I brew some tea?" Mrs Browne croaked, but Henry shook his head.
"No, thank you," he replied, not wishing to discuss matters of murder in front of the fairer sex, "Perhaps Mr Browne, you might indulge me in a walk around the farm? We might inspect some of the lands while we talk."
"Yes, Your Grace," the farmer nodded, before leading Henry away from the farmhouse, wearing the expression of a man walking to the gallows.
They moved in silence, for a few minutes, across green fields dotted with sheep. Henry absently noted the new fences, the freshly dug drainage channels--for this close to the river the land was marshy--and the general air of order, as they walked through Browne's land.
"Please, Your Grace," Mr Browne eventually stuttered, "I can bear your silence no longer. Mr Silks had said that he would put in a kindly word with you about my arrears, but if you have decided to evict me, I would rather know now."
Oh, dear. Henry had taken several meetings with his estate agent since his return, but not once had Mr Browne's arrears come up in conversation. As Mr Silks was an excellent agent, and as the matters they had already attended to had been of the utmost importance, Henry deduced that Mr Silks had not mentioned anything yet as Mr Browne's arrears were not so great and his chances of repaying them were high.
"I have not come to evict you," Henry said firmly, and Mr Browne visibly sagged with relief.
"I have, however," Henry continued sternly, "Come to discuss the matter of Mr Parsims' murder with you."
