Page 12 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"Alas," Mary was glum, "I think you'll find that some people think it's always the lady's fault."
Mrs Fairweather soon tired of the public dressing down and stormed from the room, her husband in pursuit. Mary could see Mr Parsims' eyes following them, his smile satisfied. He then moved on to Mrs Walker, a young widow who had moved to Plumpton a few years previously. Mrs Walker looked equally as uncomfortable in the rector's presence, though alas she had no husband to come to her rescue.
What a vile creature, Mary thought, feeling anger bubble within.
Her ire was soon to be stoked even further.
Mary, who had still not been asked to dance, sometime later found herself in a circle of ladies, exchanging idle chatter. Miss Laura Morton was busy espousing the wonders of the lengthy sermons Mr Parsims delivered every Sunday--a good two hours!--but Mary was only half-listening, for it was universally agreed that Miss Morton was something of a milksop.
"I am stitching some of his more inspiring words onto a sampler," Miss Morton preened, batting her eyelashes prettily as she awaited praise and admiration.
"I can't think of any man less worthy of idolatry," Mary whispered waspishly to Jane, who stood beside her.
Jane nodded silently in agreement, as she discreetly rolled her eyes. Mr Parsims had few admirers amongst the Mifford clan.
"I say," Miss Morton frowned, as she noted something, "Are you very well acquainted with the duke, Miss Mifford? For he keeps looking your way."
Mary glanced over to where Northcott stood at the top of the room beside Lord Crabb. Neither man had deigned to dance, as had been expected, and instead stood, haughtily surveying the room. Well, Lord Crabb was haughtily surveying the room; the duke was, indeed, staring in her direction.
"We have been introduced," Mary replied, hoping that she did not sound as though she was gloating.
"Oh, how grand," Miss Morton swooned a little, casting a longing gaze in Northcott's direction.
"There was very little grandeur when Miss Mifford was first introduced to His Grace," a voice interrupted.
Mary's shoulders stiffened with fear as Mr Parsims ingratiated himself into the circle of ladies. She had not told anyone--not even Jane--of the disastrous first impression she had made on the duke for fear of scorn and ridicule. Now, as she realised that Mr Parsims was about to reveal her social misstep, Mary rather wished that she had told everyone herself. It is far easier to laugh at oneself than to be laughed at.
"The first time that Miss Mifford met His Grace was outside my home," Mr Parsims said, glancing around the circle of ladies to make certain that each one was listening. "Would you believe, she mistook him for a thief?"
"Never!" Mrs Canards was scandalised, while Miss Wickling tutted in disapproval.
"Even worse," Mr Parsims continued, allowing himself a rueful chuckle, "She threw something at him, thinking he was about to try break-in through my window."
A chorus of giggles went up from the circle of ladies, and Mary felt her face flush hot with embarrassment.
"With such sound social nous, it's easy to see why you were such a success in London, Miss Mifford," Mr Parsims finished, smiling as he turned to witness Mary's reaction to his public drubbing down.
Miss Morton looked so pleased with the turn of events that Mary was certain only manners were keeping her from rushing home and stitching the whole conversation onto a sampler. Shame and humiliation bubbled within Mary and, worse, rage.
Usually, Mary was in complete control of her emotions, but as this was the second time that Mr Parsims had sought to humiliate her--and as she knew that humiliation was the sport he most enjoyed--something inside her snapped.
"Oh," she retorted, hands-on-hips, "You are the most odious of men, Mr Parsims, and everybody knows it. I hope--I hope--I hope someone murders you on your way home."
Shocked silence greeted her outburst. Even Mr Parsims had nothing to say in response to having death wished upon him. Mary knew that she had transgressed, and her initial urge was to apologise, but a hand slipped into hers.
Jane.
Steadfast Jane stood beside her, offering Mr Parsims a cool glare.
"My sister does not really wish you ill, Sir," Jane said, rescuing the situation somewhat, "But she is correct; your behaviour and manners are not fitting of a man who represents the church. Good evening."
Jane pulled Mary away from the gaggle of ladies and Mr Parsims, to a quiet corner of the room.
"Oh, Mary," Jane sighed, "I know he was provoking, but you should not have risen to it."
"I know," Mary wailed, glancing around the assembly room, to find its occupants were stealing covert glances at her. Gossip travelled quickly in Plumpton and Mary did not doubt that news of her outburst would soon meet the duke's ears.
And worse. Her mother's.
