Page 23 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“While I don’t relish being thought a murderer, I can’t deny the timing has worked out well.” her father continued with awicked smile. “I can at least be certain that this Lord Deverell will be on his best behaviour around you.”
“Father,” Sarah protested, both horrified and amused.
“One finds solace where one can,” Mr Hughes was philosophical. “Now, why don’t you bring Anne to the village in the gig and get yourself a few new ribbons while you’re there.”
He reached into his pocket to extract a few more coins and, despite her protests, Sarah soon found herself steering the family gig toward Plumpton.
The village was alive with activity; Tuesday was a market day and various sellers had set up stall around the village green. Anne quickly disappeared arm-in-arm with Nora—the Mifford’s maid—leaving Sarah to peruse the stalls alone.
A packwoman walked by, her tray strung around her neck and bursting with colourful ribbons and yarn. Sarah found herself drawn to the bright offerings, though she felt a rush of silliness for thinking that a simple thread of pink ribbon might help her beguile an earl.
“Matches your colouring, my rose,” the woman said, as Sarah finally decided upon one of dusky pink satin. The woman’s words brought to mind Lord Deverell’s observation that she was an English rose and the purchase now felt touched by fate.
Sarah parted with her coins, offered the woman a word of thanks, and rushed away feeling a trifle mad. Romance really did addle the brain if it made one feel poetic whilst buying ribbon, she thought wryly. Determined to plant her feet firmly back on the ground—and keep them there—she wandered over to the least romantic of stalls she could find.
“Tripe?” the fishmonger called hopefully, holding up a glistening, greyish hunk of fish for her to admire.
She declined politely and moved on, inwardly acknowledging that between the ribbon and her fanciful heart, she’d had her fill of old tripe.
The other stalls held little draw; Sarah wandered aimlessly from one to the other, until a familiar face caught her eye.
“Flora,” she called as she sighted Crabb Hall’s maid wandering ahead of her, a wicker basket under arm.
“Miss Hughes,” Flora halted, her gaze a little shifty. “I’m just out to fetch a few bits for the kitchens.”
She shifted the weight of her basket from one hip to the other and, as she did so, Sarah discerned the definite sound of jars clinking within. Flora, Sarah guessed, was supplementing her income by selling a few lotions and potions while she shopped.
“Have you anything to help clear the lungs?” Sarah asked, with a nod to the basket. “My father has taken up snuff again and I’d like to have something in the medicine chest for when he inevitably comes down with a cough from it.”
“I’ve horehound syrup but it’s very bitter,” Flora said, rifling through the basket. “Mind you it draws the phlegm right out. If you want to stop a cough before it develops, then I’ve a jar of thyme and comfrey steeped in goosefat for rubbing on the chest. There’s one of grandma’s secret ingredients in there as well.”
“I’ll take the salve,” Sarah decided, “He makes the worst of patients, best to try prevent rather than cure. How is your grandmother?”
Sarah added this question in casually, as she rummaged in her purse for some coin.
“Still in a foul temper,” Flora shared, checking the muslin lid on the jar before handing it over. “I thought with Mr Hardwick gone she might return to her old-self but she’s still like a cat on a griddle.”
Sarah blinked; she’d expected to have to fish for information, so Flora’s candidness momentarily upended her equilibrium.
“Did Mr Hardwick do something to upset your grandmother?” Sarah questioned, once she had recovered herself.
“He called on her when he first moved in,” Flora confessed. “I know because he was just leaving as I arrived for a visit. I don’t know what transpired between them but she’s been in foul form ever since.”
Flora paused, then glanced nervously at Sarah, perhaps realising that she should not have shared that her grandmother held a mysterious grievance against a recently murdered man.
“I think, perhaps, she may be entering her dotage.” the maid ventured, in an attempt to obfuscate. “The say a loss of faculties as you age can change the temperament. Everyone vexes her these days, even little Mr Tresswell. Why, he’s no more threatening than a spectacled dormouse.”
Sarah smiled at the image; the diminutive solicitor did have a mousey look about him. Still, she was somewhat troubled, not least because she had clearly upset Flora.
“It might be the heat either,” Sarah waved her hand to encompass the blue sky above. “It has been oppressive of late and would put anyone in a bad mood—never mind someone of more advanced years.”
She knew she was grasping at straws, for old Mrs Bridges was as hardy as any dockweed and twice as stubborn. She was the least likely person to be bothered by a balmy day.
“Mayhap,” Flora agreed, though Sarah could see that her dark eyes were still troubled. The girl then glanced across at the costermonger shouting his wares and turned to offer Sarah an apologetic smile.
“I’d best go about my work, Miss Hughes,” she stated. “Mr Allen is a stickler for time-keeping. He knows down to the minute how long it takes to walk to and from Crabb Hall and he’ll dock my wages if he thinks I was dallying.”
“Well, I don’t want to get you into trouble,” Sarah answered, though her choice of phrase brought a stir of guilt. If theinvestigation was to reveal Mrs Bridges as the culprit, then Sarah would be visiting a world of trouble upon the Bridges family.
