Ever since that fateful afternoon in the hills of Hertfordshire, Bridget had been plagued by nightmares. Three horrible days had passed in the aftermath, news quickly spreading around the town of Hertford and the surrounding manor houses that Mary was dead. Bridget had been at the center of speculation over the manner of her death and was subjected to endless inquiries about how exactly an experienced horsewoman like Mary had come to take such a fatal fall.
It was a freak accident, Bridget told them. Tragic and horrible. Mary was gone too soon, her best friend in all the world—dead in an instant.
The door creaked open and Bridget’s maid, Tilda, stepped into the room with wide eyes. She was carrying a cup of tea , her grey hair pulled into a bun on top of her head, and she surveyed Bridget with a certain level of shock.
Bridget blushed as she realized how disheveled she was, her hair in dark tangles all over her head, her green eyes ringed red with tears. Even her nightgown was askew, hanging from one shoulder as she tried to right herself and the sheets.
“Lady Bridget,” Tilda murmured. “You were screaming—whatever is the matter?”
“It’s nothing, Tilda,” Bridget sighed, her chin still trembling from the sobs that had wracked her nightmares. “Just another nightmare.”
“About Lady Mary?”
Bridget nodded, and Tilda eyed her with sympathy as she took a few steps closer. “I brought you some chamomile tea,” Tilda said. “And I can get the laudanum should you need it to sleep.”
Bridget shook her head. She’d spent every night since her friend’s death drunk on the dream-like draught, lost in a medically-induced stupor. “No, thank you,” Bridget said. “It is time to face all this—I can’t keep throwing myself into dreams when my dreams are almost as bad as reality.”
“Poor thing,” Tilda cooed. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but youwillfeel better one day. With time, the pain will fade.”
Bridget tried not to begin crying again, swiping at her eyes with a crooked finger. “What if I don’t want it to?”
Tilda didn’t have time to respond; the door opened once again, and Bridget’s mother, Sarah, appeared at the threshold. Lady Sarah Sedgwick was a tall, imperious woman with the same dark hair and green eyes as Bridget, though a certain gauntness shaded her face. She didn’t seem to have slept much either, her fingers preemptively gripped around a bottle of laudanum.
“I’ll care for her from here, Tilda,” Sarah muttered, glancing at Bridget.
“My lady,” Tilda said, tilting her head and hurrying out of the room, the door thudding shut behind her as she left them alone. Sarah took the maid’s place quickly, smoothing out her dressing gown as she sat.
“What is this I hear about not wanting to feel better?” Sarah asked, tucking a strand of hair back behind Bridget’s ear.
Bridget took a shuddering breath, her brow furrowing. “It’s just that I don’t want to forget about her,” she said. “Mary was my dearest friend, and she’sgone. If I forget about her, then who will remember?”
“It isn’t your duty to hold vigil for Mary,” Sarah said. She rested her hand over her daughter’s, her fingers curling in a comforting show of solidarity. “What Mary would want is for you to live on and tolove, my darling. She would be devastated to watch you grieve forever.”
“But it’s only been a few days.”
“And every day you spend weeping for her is a day you’ll miss out on the joy in life, which Mary would have wanted you to experience,” Sarah said. “Grieve now, and after the funeral tomorrow, think about the good—all that’s yet to come.”
“Like what?”
“Love and marriage, of course,” Sarah said. “Children, a family. You’re so young, Bridget. At twenty-two, you should be looking forward to the life ahead of you, not behind at the friends you’ve lost along the way.”
“It feels so senseless,” Bridget said. “Mary had a life ahead ofhertoo.”
“I know, dear girl,” Sarah said. “Now, do you think you can sleep, or…?”
Bridget shook her head, knowing that if she went without the draught she would be in for another sleepless night. “No,” she said. “I think I would like it—if only for this one night.”
“All right,” Sarah said, then handed her the little bottle. “You have tea?”
“Yes, Tilda brought me some.”
Bridget reached toward her bedside table for the glass, and Sarah handed her the vial. Bridget braced herself for the bitterness as she took a swig of it, then quickly washed it down with the tea, which did nothing to dilute the horrid flavor.
“I’ll have Tilda set out your mourning clothes tomorrow,” Sarah said. “You can expect us to be some of the chief mourners there, as Mary’s mother is still in ill health. Although…”
She paused, her voice lingering on the precipice of something she seemed certain would upset her daughter.
“What?” Bridget asked. The laudanum was already clouding her senses, a dreamy haze settling over her. “What aren’t you telling me, Mother?”