Page 34 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
Once outside, she took a breath to steady her nerves—which were agitated—before heading off for the butcher. She had only made it half way down the main street, when she bumped into Mrs Mifford and Lady Crabb pushing an elaborate perambulator.
“He needs more air,” Sarah heard Mrs Mifford cry as she approached.
Jane fiddled with the hood until it was down but her mother then shook her head crossly.
“No, no, I take it back!” Mrs Mifford cried, yanking the hood forward again. “There’s a wicked draught! Jane, why didn’t you say there was a draught?”
Jane’s expression of determined neutrality faltered. She straightened, caught sight of Sarah, and gave her a look of frank relief.
“Miss Hughes,” she called. “How lovely to see you.”
Sarah bid the pair hello, then peered into the perambulator to greet baby Michael. Like his cousin George, Michael was a sturdy little thing, all chubby cheeks and pudgy fists.
“He gets more adorable every time I see him,” she said, lifting her head.
“You may have one of your own soon, Miss Hughes,” Mrs Mifford replied encouragingly—and loudly—much to Sarah’s embarrassment.
Jane quickly steered them into a more neutral conversation about the upcoming assembly and the following day’s fête. Mrs Mifford extracted a promise from Sarah to supply an apple-tansey for the cake stall, while Jane promised to send over a gown that no longer fit her.
“I insist,” Jane said firmly, when Sarah tried to protest. “I cannot bear the thought of it hanging in my wardrobe gathering dust. You’d be doingmethe favour by wearing it.”
Jane could be every bit as determined as her sister Mary when she wished—and secretly, Sarah was thrilled at the idea of wearing a new gown from a London modiste. Her own wardrobe contained handsome pieces, but she doubted any could compete.
Just as Jane was describing the cut of the gown in more detail, Mrs Mifford’s attention was caught by Mrs Fawkes strolling along on the far side of the road.
“I can guess how her gown will be cut,” Mrs Mifford sniffed. “Low.”
“Mama,” Jane protested, casting Sarah an apologetic glance.
“Well it will,” Mrs Mifford was unrepentant. “She’ll be out to lure a new fellow into her clutches now that Mr Hardwick’s gone.”
“I expect more from you mother than repeating idle gossip,” Jane scolded.
“It’s not idle gossip. Mr Leek himself saw them together, when he was helping Mrs Fawkes design her flower beds,” Mrs Mifford was indignant.
“That ispreciselygossip,” Jane said sharply. “Second-hand, unconfirmed, and shared by a man who claims to be a gentleman.”
“No one would ever accuse Mr Leek of being a gentleman,” Mrs Mifford sniffed, missing the point entirely.
Jane rolled her eyes up to heaven in despair and began to fuss at Michael’s blankets.
“I think he’s a bit cold, Mama,” she suggested, with a discreet wink to Sarah, “Perhaps we should return home?”
Her words set Mrs Mifford into a flurry of panic and the two departed for Crabb Hall, with Jane promising to call in to Sarah that evening with the gown.
Sarah continued on to the butcher, her thoughts pleasantly occupied with the idea of trying on a new dress.
Inside, the shop was cool and dim, the air heavy with the scent of sawdust, herbs—and something less appealing.
She gave a start as she spotted Mr Leek at the counter deep in argument with Mr Hamley, the butcher.
“I requested that bill be paid three times, Mr Leek,” she heard Mr Hamley grumble. “I have suppliers to pay.”
“You’ll have to take the issue up with Mrs Vickery,” the horticulturist shrugged in reply. “It must have slipped her mind to tell me.”
Mr Hamley scowled, his expression echoing Sarah’s own internal thoughts. It was obvious that it was not Mrs Vickery’s fault the bill was being settled past its due date. Mrs Mifford might be prone to exaggeration, but in this case, she was quite correct—Mr Leek was no gentleman to blame a woman for his own faults.
“I only pay these prices because you’ve no competition,” Mr Leek continued. “You’d never get away with charging so much in Cirencester.”
