The Cloven Foot by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

There were no bonfires or floral arches, no rejoicings of tenantry or farm labourers, when John Treverton and his wife came home to Hazlehurst Manor. They came unannounced one fine July afternoon, arriving in a fly hired at Beechampton, much to the distress of Mrs. Trimmer, who declared that there was absolutely nothing in the house. Yet many an anxious city housekeeper would have considered the noble array of hams, pendant from the massive beams of the kitchen ceiling, the flitch of bacon, the basket of new-laid eggs, the homely saffron-hued plum cakes, the dainty sweet biscuits, the ox tongues and silver side of beef in pickle, the chickens waiting to be plucked -- worthy to count as something.

‘You might have sent me a telegram, mum, and then I might have done myself credit,' said Mrs. Trimmer, dolefully. ‘I don't believe there's a bit of fish to be had in Hazlehurst. I was in the village at twelve o'clock this blessed day, and there was one sole frizzling on the slates at Trimpson's, and I'll warrant he's been sold by this time.'