Page 44 of A Murder, a Marquess, and Miss Mifford
My lord, I have had news that a Mrs Lacey, of Wynding House, just outside your preferred village of Plumpton is seeking to sell the house she inherited from her late husband. The lady in question is keen for a quick sale, as she is due to remarry and it is not certain that her husband-to-be will survive much longer. If you have an interest, send word with my lad, and I shall have an agent meet you there this evening.
"Tell your master to go ahead and send the agent down to Plumpton," Freddie instructed the young lad, who bobbed his head, then left.
Freddie, who had taken the message in the entrance hall, turned to a lingering footman and instructed him to have his carriage readied.
"Then, tell Farley to pack me an overnight bag," Freddie added, for by the time they reached Plumpton, it would be nearly dark.
Filled with excitement, Freddie made for the library and wrote a short note to Emily, to explain that he would be out of town for the evening. He had expected to spend the evening at Lady Hubbard's ball, which Emily was also due to attend, and regretted that he would be forced to spend another evening without glancing upon her.
It was for the greater good, however, and when the footman returned to tell Freddie that everything would be arranged within the half-hour, Freddie gave a broad smile. The future was within his reach; in just a few more days, Emily's name would be cleared, he would have a house to offer her in Plumpton, and she would have very few reasons to refuse his proposal.
The journey from London to Plumpton took the best part of the day. Though the weather was fine, and the road in good condition, the length of the journey necessitated several stops to change horses. At last, the postillion who had travelled with them since the first stage, gave a shout that The King's Head Inn was in sight.
"Thank heaven for that," Freddie called back. His posterior had taken a battering, despite the luxury of the coach.
At the Inn, Freddie was shown to the grandest room, which overlooked the town of Plumpton. He freshened up, with the basin of warm water a chamber maid had brought for him, before setting straight back downstairs to have a chaise readied for him.
"In which direction does Wynding House lie?" he questioned the young groomsman assisting him.
"Over yonder," the lad waved a hand in an eastward direction, "Take the bridge to Lower Plumpton and follow the road past the church and Northcott Hall, then you'll come to a crossroads and you take the left. It's behind a big set of gates, with some ornamental pineapples on 'em."
"Of course it is," Freddie hid a smile; pineapples had beenthestatus symbol of the previous century, and even today to have one as a centrepiece at a dinner-party was considered the height of fashion.
Mrs Lacey's late husband must have made his wealth in importing from the new world, Freddie deduced, as he clambered upon the chaise.
With a neat flick of the reins, the two horses took off, turning from the courtyard to the main street. Plumpton was a quaint village; nearly every building had a thatched roof, and the numerous shops sported mullioned windows and brightly painted doors.
As Freddie drove on, he noticed the townsfolk staring openly at him. Outside a pub, which--according to the sign outside--was called The Ring'O'Bells, several gentlemen, holding half glasses of ale and enjoying the late evening sun, gawped at him passing.
Glad to offer some entertainment, Freddie tipped his hat as he passed, and the gentlemen in turn raised their hands in salute--even though none knew him. Plumpton, Freddie guessed, was the type of small village where a perceived slight might be remembered for decades. Best to wave at everyone, just in case.
The road curved slightly, and Freddie sighted the low stone bridge which crossed the stream. He followed the road on further, past the church, past the gates of Northcott Hall, reaching the crossroads in jig-time. There he took a left, until he found himself outside the gates of Wynding House.
They were made of black, wrought iron, and decorated with gold leaf pineapples, as the groomsman had said they would be. Freddie guided the chaise through them, up the long winding path, to a fine house in the early Georgian style.
The yellow bath stone glowed warm in the evening sunlight, and the perfectly symmetrical windows reflected the pink of the gathering sunset. A climbing rose, with a few early pale blooms, framed the doorway in a charming disarray.
Before he had even entered it, Wynding House had Freddie smitten.
Mr Waters, the agent from Chesterton's met Freddie at the door, while a handsome groomsman took charge of the horse and chaise.
"My lord, I am honoured by your presence," Mr Waters gushed, revealing himself as a potential sycophant.
Freddie, who quite liked being adored, beamed in reply.
"The pleasure is all mine," he said, as he strode into the entrance hall followed by the agent, "You have an easy sale on your hands, I am already very taken by the outside of the house."
"A man of great taste--which one could easily guess from your attire alone, if you don't mind me saying so, my lord."
"I don't mind at all."
"If you are taken by the exterior, then I can assure you that you will be just as delighted by the interior," Waters continued, "If you'd like to follow me?"
Freddie followed the agent, who began the tour on the third floor, where the servants were quartered. From there, they viewed the bedchambers on the second floor--all bright and airy, with floor to ceiling windows.
On the ground floor, Freddie was shown the kitchens, then the dining room, parlour room, drawing room, and library, before finishing the tour in the long room, which ran the length of the house and doubled as a ballroom.
"Is this the mistress of the house?" Freddie queried, gesturing to a large portrait of a woman of about forty years, above the mantelpiece.
