Page 37 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"He did?"
Mrs Wickling, whom just seconds ago Mary had feared was about to expire from shock, sat up in her chair with excitement. Her dark eyes danced with interest, and she regarded Mary more kindly than she had on her arrival.
"Do tell, dear," she whispered, leaning forward, "I'm all ears."
Some people, Mary thought sourly, could not be helped.
"It is not for me to say," Mary was pious, "I simply wanted to let you know that you were not alone in your suffering, but now that Mr Parsims is dead and buried, it has come to an end."
"You won't tell her, will you?" Mrs Wickling blurted, as Mary finished her speech, "You won't tell Mrs Canards that it was I who sabotaged her roses? Oh, I just couldn't stand to watch her win again. Every year she takes first place in that competition; I wouldn't mind it if she was gracious, but she gloats and gloats for weeks afterwards."
So that was the secret Mr Parsims had held over her head! Mary tried not to let her surprise show on her face--for this was nearly more shocking that Mrs Walker's reveal--as she offered Mrs Wickling a kindly smile.
"Gossip is a disease which spreads from mouth to mouth," Mary said in reply, "And I, for one, will not partake in it. Your secret is safe with me, Mrs Wickling."
"Thank you," the elderly woman replied, though it was obvious that the words were difficult for her to get out. She cleared her throat, sipped her tea, then turned her head to the package in her lap in order to distract them both.
"Such fine work," Mrs Wickling commented, as she rubbed an arthritic hand across the linen "Her embroidery is faultless, even if her character is not."
"Let he without sin cast the first stone," Mary responded, her patience finally giving way, "Thank you for the tea, Mrs Wickling, I shall let myself out."
Outside, Mary took a deep breath of fresh air to calm herself. Mrs Wickling would try the patience of a saint and Mary could not think of two people more suited to be friends than she and Mrs Canards. They were like two peas in a pod; grasping, mean, and hypocritical. Every Sunday, both ladies could be found in church, sitting proudly in the front row, judging those they thought less holy than they.
"My dear, you look vexed."
It was rare for Mary to find her father alone in the house, but upon her return he was the only one present. Mr Mifford regarded Mary with knowing eyes, then waved a hand to indicate that she should follow him into the library.
As Primrose Cottage was not a large house, and as most of the space was taken up by its four daughters, Mr Mifford's library might be regarded by some as more of a cupboard than a room. Mary, however, adored the squashed, cosy feeling of the library, where the shelves reached up to the very ceilings and the chairs were so close to the fire that it was almost a hazard.
"Is there anything that you would like to share with me?" Mr Mifford questioned, as he poured a glass of brandy for himself and a minuscule serving for Mary.
Mary hesitated as she tried to decide what she needed to censure from her father's ears. Not only was she the custodian of Mrs Walker's and Mrs Wickling's secrets, but she was also the custodian of her own--she could not tell her father how much time she had spent alone with Northcott, in case he disapproved.
In a halting manner, Mary began to explain all that had transpired to her father; Mr Parsims' blackmail of both Mrs Walker and Mrs Wickling, that Mrs Walker had finally found happiness with Canet but that it might soon be snatched away, and the awful hypocrisy of Mrs Wickling and Mrs Canards.
"It's not fair," Mary surmised, "Poor Mrs Walker is to be punished again, when she is so good, while Mrs Wickling can carry on with her appalling behaviour."
"Life is not fair," Mr Mifford replied sagely, as he sipped upon his brandy, "Well, to the untrained eye it can seem that way, at least."
Mary sipped on her own brandy--though only once, for it was vile--and waited for her father to continue.
"In my line of work, we often focus too much on punishment in the afterlife, and forget that people can be punished by their actions in the here and now too," Mr Mifford said, his beard twitching as he smiled, "You think that Mrs Walker is the only one suffering, but think how Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling suffer every day. The only friend they have is each other."
"Not even," Mary replied, thinking of how Mrs Wickling had sabotaged her friend's roses out of spite, "They're both too horrid to show even each other any kindness."
"There you are," Mr Mifford waved a hand, "Is that punishment enough for you? Or would you rather God was bit more Old Testament in his punishment?"
"No," Mary shook her head, "There has been quite enough blood shed in Plumpton."
"As for Mrs Walker," Mr Mifford continued, "If Monsieur Canet does turn out to be guilty of murder, I can only say that she has perhaps had a lucky escape."
"Oh?" Mary raised an eyebrow, but her father was not to be swayed.
"A woman who falls for a rake once, is a sure target for a second one," Mr Mifford said, before changing the subject, "And I will speak to Mr Fairweather; though this is not the first time I have been asked to talk to him regarding this, and I don't want to give you false hope that it will be the last. If you marry, Mary, I implore you to please choose your husband carefully."
"I will not marry now, father," Mary replied, with a heavy sigh, "I am far too old and now fully committed to a life of spinsterhood."
"Is that so?" Mr Mifford reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a letter, sealed with a red-wax stamp, "If that is the case then, would you rather not read this letter which came for you from Northcott Manor?"
