Page 45 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"When did Northcott give you the handkerchief?" Jane questioned, her eyes knowing.
Jane had tried to keep Mary company the night before, as she had waited for the duke's return, but had fallen asleep just after midnight. She quite obviously suspected that Northcott had visited and that Mary was keeping something from her--and she was correct in both regards.
"He gave it to me on the green," Mary lied, her cheeks pink, "And that is not the issue at hand, Jane. Mrs Walker is suffering, and I wish to offer her some comfort. Now, if you will excuse me."
Mary adopted her pious-older-sister expression, which instantly irritated Jane, as she had known it would.
"Suit yourself," Jane murmured in reply, "I'd rather walk alone anyway."
It was but a sisterly squabble; Mary knew that by dinnertime they would be the best of friends again, so she did not dwell on their argument as she made her way down to the village. She wore her second-best walking dress, for her dress from yesterday was now dreadfully creased, but as she made her way along High Street, Mary wished she had worn something better.
Every eye in the village seemed to follow her as she walked, leaving Mary feeling self-conscious. At first, she thought it was her imagination, but as a group of ladies outside the haberdashery turned to stare quite openly as she passed, she knew it was not so.
Was there something on her face, she wondered, as she surreptitiously tried to scrub at her cheek with her gloved hand. Perhaps her skirt had become tucked into her petticoats, she thought, though a subtle brush of her bottom revealed that her modesty was still very much so covered.
It was only when Mary heard someone audibly mention the duke and her name in the same sentence, that Mary realised what was amiss; the whole town had seen her on the green with Northcott. They had witnessed him singling her out from the crowd, talking to her in a whisper, and taking her hand in his--and they had obviously drawn their own conclusions.
Mary could have wept; she had lied to Jane to keep her from becoming excited on Mary's behalf, but she could not persuade the whole town to her side. Worse; whispers would soon reach her mother's ears, who would then fan the fires of rumour and intrigue like a bellows.
And when Northcott disappeared back to London, whilst Mary was left alone and single as ever, the whole town would know her disappointment.
Again.
The only thing which kept Mary from drowning in a well of self-pity was seeing how upset Mrs Walker was when she opened the door to Mary's knock.
Some people have real troubles, Mary chided herself; there were far greater woes in life than losing face.
Mary followed Mrs Walker into the kitchen, where she set about making the poor woman some tea.
"Thank you," Mrs Walker sniffled, "Please excuse my tears, I'm afraid that I did not get much sleep last night and am a little overwrought."
"Hush," Mary comforted her, "You must not apologise for crying; it's only natural after such a great loss."
Her kind words sent Mrs Walker off into another bout of tears, during which Mary could do no more than pat her arm and whisper "there, there". Once she had cried herself out, Mrs Walker fell into reminiscing about Monsieur Canet who, by the sounds of things, had swept her off her feet with his Gallic charm.
"I have had so much good news of late that it was foolish of me not to expect something terrible to happen," Mrs Walker sighed, "First, my aunt told me that she was leaving the farm to me in her will, and not my cousin George as was expected. Then Guillame asked me to marry him. Oh! I thought that finally life was taking pity on me."
Mary wished she was not so cynical, but as Mrs Walker explained her run of good luck, she longed to question in what order these two events had taken place. From the way Mrs Walker had told it, her relationship--or affair, as her Mama might call it--had been a secretive one; had Monsieur Canet only proposed when he learned that Mrs Walker was set to inherit her aunt's sizable farm?
Mary hated herself for it, but she could not help but feel it was true. Her father had said that a woman who falls for a rake once is a sure target for a second one, and Mary was inclined to believe him. Even after her unfortunate affair with her soldier, poor Mrs Walker had not learned that it was always best to be suspicious of charming men.
"I have brought something for you," Mary said, as a means to distract herself from her mean thoughts of Monsieur Canet. She reached into her skirt pocket, fished out the handkerchief, and handed it to Mrs Walker.
"His Grace found it in Monsieur Canet's room last night," she said, as Mrs Walker stared at it blankly, "He wanted it returned to you, as it is obviously sentimental."
"I've never seen it before in my life."
Both women stared down at the hankie, upon which the initials G.C. had been stitched, encircled by flowers and hearts. Mary felt her stomach churn, as she realised that she may have made a bad situation far worse for poor Mrs Walker.
"Perhaps his mother made it for him?" Mary suggested brightly.
"She's been dead thirty years," Mrs Walker replied, pushing the handkerchief back across the table to Mary.
From another room there came a terrible clatter, accompanied by the sound of a child's wailing.
"That will be Benjamin," Mrs Walker gave a sigh of relief at the distraction, "I must go check on him."
"I will show myself out," Mary replied, "Do call on me if you need anything, Mrs Walker."
