Drawings in coal appeared at the bottom, hastily made by her own hand in a haze of grief and laudanum. She had come to her painting room frequently over the past few nights, rising and going to the solarium by candlelight. The drawings were grotesque, and they depicted the worst day of her life.
Mary’s eyes, dead and vacant. Blood pooling in the grass. Gasping for breath, a scream…
Bridget stared at the drawings, and everything came back to her in vivid detail. Mary’s brown eyes, red blood, green grass, a white dress. Bridget's mind was a riot of horror.
Sheslammed the trunk shut with a sob, resting her head against the lid. It was all too horrible to believe, let alone remember. Her fingers curled around the key, knowing she needed to open it again so she could fill the trunk with her keepsakes to conceal her secret.
A knock came suddenly at the door, and Bridget’s head jerked to face it. The butler’s voice came from the other side, telling her that the duke had arrived. Taking less care with her belongings than she should have, she hurried to put everything away, and locked the trunk once again.
She would return to her secret task later.
For now, she needed to talk with Graham.
CHAPTERSEVEN
The Sedgwick home hadn’t changed a bit. As the butler showed Graham to the parlor, he was bombarded by memories of two wild girls running through the halls, of him playing pirates with Mary and Bridget. The reminiscences hurt, but they also healed, and Graham felt invigorated as a result.
He was not alone for long, however. Bridget entered the room a few minutes later. Her eyes were bright with tears, and hesuppressed the urge to ask if she was all right. He didn't want to embarrass the girl, who was clearly prone to bouts of insecurity when he fixated on her appearance. Still, he did not know quite what to say.
So they stood in silence for a few moments, his heart pounding despite his best efforts not to show it. Bridget politely smiled and shifted on her feet, her hands clasped beforeher. He noticed she had paint on her fingertips, previously concealedby hergloves at the funeral.
“Tea?” Bridget suddenly exclaimed, her eyelashes fluttering.
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely,” Graham mumbled.
He followed her to a large sofa in the middle of the room, a tea tray set before it with a pot of exotically fragranced Earl Grey at the center. Graham took a seat in the chair opposite the sofa, while Bridget smoothed her skirts and sat, leaning forward to pour him a cup. He took her distraction as an opportunity to take in her appearance, noting the way her dark hair had curled after drying. It was as wild as he remembered, lustrous and rich, visible only now she had removed her veil.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked, her green eyes darting up to his.
“Just cream,” he smiled.
She poured a dab of cream into his tea and passed him the porcelain cup and saucer. Graham stirred it thoughtfully, considering how to broach the subject he wished to speak of.
“How was your—”
“I wanted to—”
They broke off, laughing awkwardly. Even with his discomfort, it felt good to laugh again. Bridget seemed to have the ability to lift his spirits. As she sipped her tea, she blushed and looked over his shoulder toward the window.
“You first,” he said.
“I was just going to ask if you stayed dry during your walk home,” she said quietly. “It began to pour quite soon after you left. I hope you weren’t caught in the storm.”
“I was,” Graham admitted. “But it was no matter; I find that a touch of rain can clear the senses when one needs to think.”
“Agreed,” Bridget said. “I also wish to once again tell you how very sorry I am for Mary’s sudden death. She is sorely missed.”
“She is indeed,” Graham said. “And I’m sorry for the loss of your best friend.”
Bridget’s smile grew pained. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But… you must have some other reason for coming, beyond condolences?”
Graham nodded. “Yes; I actually want to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind. My butler, Warren, mentioned that you were with Mary when she died, and he suggested that I speak with you about the nature of her accident—and, of course, her.”
Bridget’s gaze faltered, and she swallowed hard. Graham was disturbed to see her hands were shaking, the teacup rattling against its saucer in her lap.
“Oh,” she said. “So you would like to learn more about her… her death?”
Graham frowned. “Not if it troubles you, Bridget.”