Page 21 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"I'm telling you, Nora," the male voice grumbled, "That man has it in for me. First, he was annoyed with me for reporting the missing painting, then he made me ride to Cirencester to deliver a message when everyone else got the morning off, now he tells me my conduct is under review."
"If your conduct is under review," Nora replied, tartly, "Then why are you sitting in my kitchen, when you should be carrying out your duties? You can't get dismissed from your position, Jimmy, not when Ma needs the money we send home."
Jane's shoulders sagged in relief as she realised that the gentleman in the kitchen was not a suitor calling for a tête-à-tête with Nora, but rather her brother James, who worked as a footman in Plumpton Hall.
"I reckon Mr Allen broke the frame and hid the painting," Jimmy continued, as though Nora hadn't spoken, "And that's why he has it in for me."
"Or maybe he has it in for you because you're a work-shy lump, who prefers to spend the morning eating currant buns in my kitchen over working," she replied, her tone far more affectionate than her words belied.
Beyond the door there was the sound of a chair scraping against the flagstone floor, and Jane realised that Jimmy was about to leave. Adopting an innocent expression, Jane pushed the door of the kitchen open, and went inside, hoping to delay him a little.
"Miss Mifford," the young footman flushed, casting his sister a nervous glance.
"James, how nice to see you," Jane responded, offering him a warm smile, "Are you just passing through?"
"I was on my way to the village to fetch something for the house and I thought that I would call in on Nora on the way," James replied, apologetic for his intrusion.
"Lovely," Jane smiled again, in order to assure him that she would not tattle, before glancing pointedly at the teapot on the table, "Would you like to stay for another cup?"
"No, thank you, Miss Mifford," the young man shook his head, "I had best be off, before I get in trouble for dallying. Goodbye Nora."
"Behave," his sister called back, as James slipped out through the kitchen door.
"Brothers," Nora grumbled, as the door closed behind him, "You're lucky you've only sisters, Miss Mifford."
"You can't truly believe that, Nora," Jane chided, with a smile, "When you've met all three of them. How is James faring up at the Hall? Is all going smoothly with the new Lord Crabb? Come, have some tea with me while all is quiet."
Nora, who never said no to a cup of tea, seated herself back at the table with a happy sigh.
"I don't think James is high-up enough to have many dealings with Lord Crabb," Nora offered, "He mostly deals with the head footman, Mr Fitzherbert, and the butler, Mr Allen. By all accounts, the staff are very pleased with their new master—new uniforms, more pay, less trouble—though Mr Allen is quite sore that everyone has taken such a liking to the new lord, given how he murdered the last viscount."
"There's no evidence that he killed Lord Crabb," Jane interjected, but Nora merely shrugged and took a large bite from a currant bun.
"Mr Allen seems to think he did, according to my Jimmy," Nora commented, "Jimmy reckons he's real shook up about the whole thing. Understandable, I suppose, given his history and the fact he's worked there for more years than the two of us have between us."
"Quite," Jane placed a hand to her brow, momentarily weary. How on earth would she discover the true killer, when everyone seemed too happy to accept that it was Lord Crabb?
"We'll have to arrange a dance, at the end of the month," Jane said, deciding to change tack, "An assembly to welcome the new viscount; I shall see if Mrs Canards will allow the Ladies' Society to organise it."
"Oh, a dance," Nora's eyes lit up, "The perfect thing to banish the cobwebs of winter. I don't know about you, Miss Mifford, but I find the dark mornings so wearisome."
"Er, yes," Jane replied, longing to ask Nora when she had last risen early enough to find the morning still dark, "Is there any lucky man in town you have your eye on, Nora? I thought I caught Mr Bennett glancing your way the other day."
Nora's face lit up at the very mention of Mr Bennett, and Jane felt a pang of guilt for falsely raising her hopes. Nora's hope, however, was soon replaced by realism, and she gave a derisive laugh.
"I doubt he was looking at me, unless Flora Bridges was standing behind me," Nora grumbled, good-natured despite her disappointment.
"I do not know Miss Bridges," Jane ventured, her mind casting back to the morning she had spotted Mr Bennett talking with a servant on the village green.
"She works up in Plumpton Hall," Nora shrugged, her brow marred by a frown, "I personally don't know what he sees in her—she's a witch."
"Nora," Jane scolded; disappointment was perfectly acceptable, but name calling to soothe it was not.
"I don't mean it like that," Nora gave a giddy laugh at Jane's censure, "I mean she's really a witch. She grew up near Pudding Hill on the Bath Road, in a little cottage with her grandmother. Old Mrs Bridges makes herbal potions and the like, for those who can't afford the services of Dr Bates or the druggist in Cirencester. Flora's the same, she has a potion for every ailment. She sells them down The Ring on occasion."
"Oh," Jane's sense of indignation dissipated at Nora's explanation. Mrs Mifford kept a copy of Culpepper's Herbal Compendium and a medicine chest full of homemade salves and ointments, but for country folk—with no reading skills—a woman like Mrs Bridges, who knew the old secrets of the still room, was usually the first port of call in a crisis. In the past, such women would have suffered accusations of witchcraft, and though these days people were somewhat more enlightened, old habits—and old insults—died hard.
"She's welcome to him, anyway," Nora sighed, her mind still on Mr Bennett, "By all accounts he has a temper, and his father hasn't a hair on his head. I may not have many choices, but I'd rather no husband than be married to an egg."
