Page 13 of A Victim, A Viscount, And Miss Mifford
"Miss Mifford," a familiar voice called.
Jane glanced up to spot Mrs Canards—the village snoot—bearing down upon her, with her eternal shadow, Mrs Wickling, scurrying in her wake.
"Miss Mifford, I have heard a terrible rumour, and I wish to have it confirmed," Mrs Canards said, as she came to a halt before Jane, "Is it true? Is Lord Crabb dead? And did his heir really bash his head in with a candlestick?"
"Lord Crabb was poisoned," Jane corrected, through gritted teeth. If she hadn't felt such pity for poor Mr Bonville—or rather, the new Lord Crabb—she might have taken a moment to marvel at how quickly gossiping mouths could transform the truth so quickly.
"So, he poisoned him?" Mrs Canards held a gloved hand to her chest, as though horrified, "How truly terrible—do tell me more."
"Mr Bonville," Jane replied, before correcting herself, "I mean, the new Lord Crabb did not murder the late Lord Crabb. Anything that you have heard is based on conjecture."
"Is that so?" Mrs Canards raised a thin eyebrow, "Is there another suspect? Had they actually married, one would naturally assume that young Miss Hughes had played a part in his lordship's demise. As it is, I cannot think of another soul who might have reason to kill Lord Crabb. Except, perhaps, Mr MacDowl in the haberdashery—he has Irish blood, you know."
Jane was too irritated by the irascible woman to offer a true defence of poor Mr MacDowl. Instead, through gritted teeth, she simply informed Mrs Canards that though there were no other suspects at present, that there was very little evidence to suggest that the viscount's heir had played a hand in his death.
"How disappointing," Mrs Canards sighed, upset that she was to glean no extra news from Jane, "And we shall have to cancel the assembly next week, it wouldn't be right to hold a dance when the whole town is in mourning."
Across the square, a cheer went up, from a crowd of men outside The Ring'O'Bells. Angus had just opened the door for the day, and Jane suspected that some of his customers were going in to celebrate the news of Lord Crabb's death. Some, she reasoned, had probably also won money on the silly book which had been running since the viscount's engagement had been announced.
Though she felt a surge of distaste for the display, Jane found that she could not condemn the men too harshly. Lord Crabb had been a terrible landlord; raising rents when it suited him, evicting some without due cause, and refusing to assist his tenants with funding much needed repairs. He had ruled his estates with a hard fist and a cold heart, and many a man would—mistakenly—raise a toast to Mr Bonville this evening.
"Tut-tut," Mrs Canards clucked, pointing her face in the direction of the fracas. Without even a farewell to Jane, she began to stomp across the square toward The Ring, shadowed by Mrs Wickling, no doubt to make a note of which men were present, so she could talk about them later.
Jane, relieved to have been excused from Mrs Canards' company—even rudely—continued with her walk. She waved hello to those she passed, for she knew most in the village by name. Nora stood outside the greengrocer's, holding court with a group of women. She nodded at Jane in acknowledgement, though her gaze was caught by something—or rather, someone—across the square.
Jane surreptitiously glanced in the same direction as Nora, and saw that the maid was staring longingly at a young farmer, who—if Jane recalled correctly—was Mr Jack Bennett. The farmer was deep in conversation with someone Jane did not recognise; a servant, judging by her clothing, perhaps from Northcott Manor or Plumpton Hall. Though they kept their distance, it was clear from the look on Mr Bennett's face that he was besotted by the young woman.
Not wishing to pry into Nora's private affairs—for unrequited love was a pain one usually wished to keep to themselves—Jane turned her gaze away. She continued on her walk, thinking to head toward the river, and as she approached the low, yellow-stone bridge, which passed over the stream which divided Upper Plumpton from Lower, she spotted another familiar figure.
"Sarah," she called to her friend, who was watching a pair of mallards search for food along the stream's banks.
Miss Sarah Hughes was Mary's particular friend, but as is the way with sisters, that meant that she was also Jane's. Sarah gave Jane a cheerful wave, her eyes bright and warm under the rim of her bonnet.
"Jane," Sarah smiled, "How lovely to see you. Thomas brought me to town this morning, and I thought that I might bump into you in the square, once I had finished my shopping."
Sarah held a basket in her arms, which was filled to the brim with goods. Jane glanced at it pointedly, and Sarah gave a wan smile.
"Once I had finished, however," she continued, "I discovered that the square was the last place I wished to be, given the news. People kept coming over to me to ask me about Prunella, though I—and I hate to say it—I do not think they were concerned, more curious."
Jane could picture Mrs Canards in her mind's eye, determinedly trying to extract what information she could from poor Sarah about her cousin—like an overly zealous member of the Spanish Inquisition.
"So, I decided to hide down here," Sarah gestured to the stream, "To pass the time before I have to meet Thomas."
"Would you like to come to Primrose Cottage for tea?" Jane offered, for it was a chill day, but Sarah shook her head.
"I do not have the time," she replied, "I am due to meet him soon enough. Oh, what wretched news for poor Prunella to have to bear."
"Indeed," Jane was tactful; she herself could not quite picture a young lady of eighteen mourning the passing of a gentleman she was marrying for his title, more the loss of the title itself.
"She is a good girl," Sarah said, perhaps sensing Jane's scepticism, "She was never the type to care for wealth or status, which is what makes me think that she was truly fond of Lord Crabb. The only person who might be relieved by all this, is Sir Charles."
"Really?" Jane could not help her exclamation of surprise, "Excuse me, I did not mean to sound so shocked. It is just, given the difference in age between the pair, I would have expected that Sir Charles was the one who engineered their union?"
"Not at all," Sarah looked uncomfortable, "It was all Prunella's devising. It really was so out of character for her; she had always been such a sweet girl, who wanted nothing more than to have her come-out and wear pretty dresses."
Perhaps Prunella thought she might have the chance to own more pretty dresses as a viscountess, Jane thought shrewdly, though she did not voice her suspicions to Sarah. Sarah was a kind and gentle soul, who took people at their word.
The sound of the church bells peeling a quarter to the hour drifted across the frigid air. Sarah blinked, as her mind registered what it meant, and cast Jane an apologetic smile.
