The Lie and the Lady by Kate Noble Page A

practice. Mrs. Emory is his neighbor next door. And there’s Helen Braithwaite”—Sir Barty pointed to a woman out the carriage window, but they turned a corner so quickly she missed seeing more than an older woman walking along with a man—“although she’s not called Braithwaite now, but I’ve never been one to use her married name. Seems strange to do so when you can remember playing sticks and hoops with someone, eh? Anyway, she and her son run the grain mill—you remember, the windmill with the fresh coat of paint that we saw as we came into town yesterday? Well, they will run it, provided they get it working again . . .”
    Leticia sprinkled her own hmms and oh yes, darlings into the conversation, watching as Sir Barty got more and more enthusiastic and verbose. The pride he felt in his town—and in his fiancée—was palpable.
    Margaret, of course, said nothing.
    When they arrived in the churchyard, it was to a large crowd of people standing in small clusters, conversing politely. Ordinarily, such pleasantries would be exchanged after the sermon, once everyone’s sins were absolved for the week and they could begin anew. But ever since Sir Barty’s carriage drove through town yesterday—and ever since the servants of Bluestone Manor no doubt rushed into Helmsley with the news . . .
    Leticia assumed that church this morning was suspiciously well attended.
    They disembarked, Sir Barty handing both ladies down. Then, pride puffing out his chest and making him walk just a bit easier, he introduced Leticia to the town of Helmsley.
    Men came up to greet them, pushed forward by their wives. As the gentlemen exchanged pleasantries with Sir Barty, the wives moved into position.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œGood morning.”
    â€œSo pleased—”
    â€œCharmed, my lady—”
    â€œWhere did you meet?”
    Oohs and ahhs followed.
    â€œParis, you say? That’s so . . . cosmopolitan! You must be so worldly!”
    â€œWorldly enough to know that Helmsley is absolutely lovely—”
    Titters of appreciation broke forth from the ladies.
    â€œWe are far too humble here for—”
    â€œBut beautiful, Mrs. . . . I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
    â€œEmory,” she said with a tight smile. “We are happy to welcome you to Helmlsey, my lady. And if you should ever need anything, anything at all, we have some fine craftsmen here—a market town and all.” Eyebrows were raised, and hints dropped. “Milliners too—”
    â€œOh, but Lady Churzy is going to London for her fashions.”
    This last from Margaret. Leticia froze in place.
    â€œShe told me so last night. London is the only place to purchase anything worth wearing.”
    Every smile shut down as the ladies of Helmsley turned accusing glares on Leticia. Except for Margaret, whose small, fixed smile spoke volumes.
    â€œFor a wedding,” Leticia added hastily. “I only said it in context of—”
    But the ladies had begun whispering among themselves, with Mrs. Emory’s voice carrying, and her stiff manners being copied by the others. “Too fine. I told you, Moira . . .”
    For the second time since her arrival, Leticia felt herself scrambling. How had she had fallen into disfavor with the women of Helmsley in less than a sentence? And of course ladies go to London for their fashions! Why was this such a terrible thing to say?
    But it was a terrible thing to say, and Margaret, for all her focus on her plants, knew it as such.
    â€œWe are very proud of what we make here. Do not sell the country short so soon after your arrival, my lady,” said Mrs. Emory, her smile turning from tight to ingratiating. She was an imperious type, and everyone cowed around her. The queen bee of Helmsley. And Leticia got the feeling that no matter what she said, or whom she purchased her dresses