Page 28 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Well, thank heaven for that,” the vicar chuckled. “I do worry when people start paying attention to my Sunday witterings, instead of dreaming of their roast dinner. It’s usually a sign something is very awry.”
“Something is awry, I’m afraid,” Sarah sighed, “I’m afraid I might have caused a mess for Mrs Bridges.”
Mr Mifford again raised his brows in surprise and Sarah quickly explained everything to him. Her father’s unfortunate link to the murder, the decision to investigate with Lord Deverell, and—finally—how Mrs Bridges appeared linked in some way to Mr Hardwick.
“If only I knew what it was the pair had argued over, then I’m certain I could clear her name,” Sarah sighed, as she finished.
“Mrs Bridges is made of sterner stuff than you—or her granddaughter, for that matter—seem to think,” Mr Mifford replied gently.
Sarah twisted the material of her skirt with worried hands; his words had gone some way to ease her guilt but only somewhat.
“The truth of what Mrs Bridges and Mr Hardwick argued over will out eventually,” the vicar continued, firmly. “As the truth always does. What I would advise you, Miss Hughes, is to stop worrying about things which have not yet—and may never—come to pass. Anxiety tends to wreak havoc on one’s digestion.”
“Thank you, Mr Mifford,” Sarah replied, though inwardly she wondered if the vicar knew more than he was letting on. His answers, while designed to soothe, had also been slightly evasive. For a moment, she wondered if Mrs Bridges had confessed something to Mr Mifford, but as the seal of confession was particular only to priests, she dismissed the idea. It would not do to accuse Mr Mifford of being a Papist, simply because she did not entirely like his answers!
“So, you’re investigating the murder with Lord Deverell,” Mr Mifford commented, as he stood to escort Sarah from the tiny, overfilled room. “In my experience, that usually leads to marriage. Thank you for forewarning me that I will again have to suffer my wife gloating about her matchmaking skills.”
“Oh, I. Oh, we. Oh, it’s not…” Sarah stammered, flustered at the sudden change of topic.
“Of course, dear,” Mr Mifford said kindly, as he showed her out the door. “Now, run along to the kitchen and see if you can tear Nora away from her duties for a cup of tea. I’m sure the poor girl needs a break, you know how devoted she is to her work.”
With a wink, the vicar disappeared back into his library, leaving Sarah to make her way to the kitchen. There, she found Nora and Charlotte already seated at the table with a plate of crumpets and a pot of tea between them.
“Miss Hughes,” Charlotte greeted her with a smile, “We’re just discussing romance troubles—do sit down and lend us your head.”
“I’m hardly experienced when it comes to romance,” Sarah demurred, “Though I am always happy to lend an ear.”
“It’s young Mr Henderson,” Charlotte began, pouring Sarah a cup from the pot. “We both agree on his handsomeness but his vices leave a lot to be desired.”
“Vices?” Sarah raised a brow.
“He’s fond of drinking, gambling, and general carousing,” Charlotte explained, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “He spends more than he earns and frequently ends up in bouts of fisticuffs after close at The Ring.”
“Indeed, he does not sound like the type of chap a girl should set her sights on,” Sarah answered cautiously, mentally noting to have a quiet word with Anne when she got home.
“Oh, he’s just misunderstood,” Nora protested, her eyes dreamy. “What he really needs is a bit of responsibility—like, say, a wife to support and a few bairns.”
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment to better help stifle the epithet on her lips. It was a common affliction amongst young ladies to believe that marriage might fix a wayward man.
“Wild men often grow into old disappointments,” Sarah cautioned Nora. Then, seeing that she was not listening, and knowing how superficial young girls could be, she added. “And Mr Henderson is cut off the same block as his father. You need to imagine yourself twenty years from now, married to a balding man with no money and a big paunch.”
Nora frowned; in her daydreams of Mr Henderson, she had obviously not imagined him aged.
“It’s no matter,” Nora sighed, as she reached out for another crumpet. “He only has eyes for Miss Morton. I’d need a dozen of Flora Bridges’ love potions to tear his gaze away from that milksop.”
Sarah made a face to indicate some displeasure at the descriptor of poor Miss Morton, though she couldn’t bring herself to scold Nora. Miss Morton did, admittedly, put one to mind of soggy bread—sweet, pale, and lacking in bite.
“Do they work then, these potions?” Charlotte interjected, fascinated by the idea.
“I couldn’t say; my wages don’t extend to such frivolities,” Nora was glum, then her eyes lit up with mischief. “And if Iwas Miss Bridges, I’d concentrate more on brewing cures for madness, than love potions.”
Though Sarah did not want to encourage Nora to gossip, she knew that servants often heard things others did not.
“Whatever do you mean?” she questioned.
“Just that some people are saying old Mrs Bridges has lost some of her faculties,” the maid shrugged. “Mrs Canards said she saw her hanging a rowan cross off her front gate and when she asked her what it was for, she said it was to ward off bad luck.”
“Well, it obviously didn’t work if Mrs Canards stopped to chat,” Charlotte observed, through a mouthful of crumpet.
