Page 34 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"I don't know what Dr Bates is about, dressing like a character from Don Quixote," Mrs Mifford sniffed with disapproval, "If anyone could afford a new set of clothes, it is surely the village doctor."
"I fear Dr Bates prefers to spend his income on pursuits other than fashion, Mama," Jane answered, diverting her eyes away from the good doctor, who sported a full-skirted knee length coat over a very frilled shirt, topped with a tricorn hat. "Besides, his stacked heels give him a nice height and, as you know, Plumpton is sorely lacking in tall male dance partners."
"His height will only be a benefit if he decides to stay longer than an hour," Mrs Mifford could not be placated, "I'm sure there is a book running on what time he will disappear down to the pub at—he's probably already bet on it himself."
"And he'll probably lose that bet, as he does all the others," Jane shrugged, earning a laugh from Mrs Mifford, who was fond of finding amusement in other people's misfortune.
The room which held the assemblies was on the top floor of the tavern and, mercifully, it had its own side-entrance, negating the need to traipse through the pub to reach it. Inside the door, Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling were checking tickets—or gate-keeping, as Jane liked to think of it—and a disorderly queue had formed before them.
"She's at it again," Mr Mifford sighed, as he spotted the queue before Mrs Canards' table.
"I'm sure this is a forgery," Mrs Canards cried loudly, as she held the ticket a young lady had presented to her up to the light to better examine it.
"It's not, ma'am," the girl protested, her cheeksred with embarrassment, "His lordship purchased tickets for all the staff at Plumpton Hall, why would he give us forged tickets?"
"Perhaps he had a change of mind," Mrs Canards sniffed, "And decided that it was not proper to invite his staff to such a grand event as this. We can't allow just anyone in, you know."
"Mrs Canards," Mr Mifford called, his low voice carrying across the room, "Remember, you are a Christian lady."
"Even Christ would baulk at allowing servants into an assembly, vicar," Mrs Canards retorted, before relenting and gesturing for the poor maid to proceed through the door.
Under Mr Mifford's—and God's, Jane supposed—watchful eye, the queue moved much quicker, with Mrs Canards offering only the occasional snide remark to feed her hunger for meanness.
"Voucher, please," she snipped, as the Mifford family approached the table.
Mr Mifford presented the voucher, which she snatched from his hand. As with the maid, she made a great show of holding it up to the light so that she could verify its authenticity, before handing it back with a sigh.
"Proceed," she grumbled, before turning her attention to the next person, "Why, Dr Bates, aren't you the height of fashion?"
Despite the auspicious start to the night, Jane found her spirits lifted quickly as she entered the assembly rooms. Though the dancefloor was empty—for the musicians had not yet begun to play—there was a great buzz in the air, as the villagers awaited the arrival of the viscount.
"I have never seen a murderer in real life," Mr Poulet, the poulterer, confessed to Jane as she joined a small circle of villagers.
"Lord Crabb is not a murderer," Jane protested, but she was cut off by Miss Morton, who looked most fetching in a gown of lilac silk.
"I am so looking forward to seeing Lord Crabb at last," she gushed, her blue eyes alight with excitement, "Though, of course, I still think that to hold an assembly so soon after the last viscount's demise is a tad unseemly."
Her last remark was delivered with an air of great piety, in case anyone present doubted Miss Morton's high moral standards. Jane was of a mind to think the remark was worthy of only the most dedicated jobsworth, but as was usually the case when a pretty girl offered an opinion, the young men of the group rushed to validate it.
"You are very right, Miss Morton," Mr Poulet agreed, as he subtly tried to look down the bodice of her dress.
"Never a truer word spoken," Mr Higgins added, with a leer in Miss Morton's direction.
"I think I shall seek out some syllabub," Jane sighed.
She detached herself from the group and walked the perimeter of the dancefloor, offering greetings and smiles to those she passed.
In the far corner of the room, she spotted Sarah, who was standing next to her cousin. Miss Hughes, Jane thought with a frown, looked even worse than she had at the Society meeting. Though she was the best dressed present—by a country mile—her countenance was so glum and her skin so grey, that even her beautiful gown could not detract from it.
"Jane!"
Sarah flagged Jane down with a very audible hint of relief in her tone. She turned to her cousin with an encouraging smile and prodded her to attention.
"Miss Hughes," Jane greeted them both, "And Miss Hughes, how lovely to see you both. Are you enjoying the evening thus far?"
"Everything is splendid," Sarah gushed, with a faux-enthusiasm that was most unlike her.
"I think I shall fetch some ratafia," Prunella interjected, before listlessly floating away.
