Lady Bridget Sedgwick
Bridget’s handwriting grew untidy as she finished the note, then pushed it across the table at a satisfied-looking Oliver. “There,” she said. “Are you happy now?”
He grimaced, picking up the paper.
“Of course I am not happy,” he said. “We have not even been married, and already you keep the company of other men. If I was a less decent man, I would end this engagement straightaway. For you to meet secretly with a bachelor not once, but twice, and all with your mother’s permission…”
Bridget held her breath, her eyes flitting to her mother. Sarah’s hand was clenched into a fist on the table, her jaw tight.
No—she could not let her family suffer for her folly.
“I am truly sorry, my lord,” Bridget said. “It shall not happen again.”
“No, it will not,” Oliver said. “Now, let us enjoy our breakfast.”
He immediately set into his eggs on toast, even though they had almost certainly grown cold. Bridget’s eyes slid up to meet her mother’s, only to find she would not meet her gaze.
So, they ate their meal in silence, while Bridget felt herself feeling more and more alone.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Graham’s restless soul would not allow him to sit still. Indeed, he could not read, think, or drink; he was desperate to see Bridget again, and he found himself unable to wait until sunset.
Thus, he wandered out to the stables at mid-morning, a book of poetry and a copy ofThe Tempesttucked into his saddlebag as he set out into the grounds of the estate. Graham was beside himself with apprehension and wonder at how she had come to affect him so deeply, and he could not remain at the manor when his future was elsewhere—out in the hills.
The foxgloves were in full bloom, and his horse’s hooves pounded against the earth as he rode on and on into the blazing sun. The previously rainy weather had turned to glorious summer, with birds singing overhead and flowers growing in bursts of color wherever he looked. He did not ride toward the village; instead, he sought solitude to be with his thoughts, a condition rare in the hustle and bustle of London.
Fairfield's letter had prompted him to consider whether he would return to the city once Mary's affairs were in order. Yet he suddenly imagined himself living in pastoral bliss in Hertfordshire, governing the county as he had been born to do. His heart ached knowing that his sister would not be there, and that his family had shrunk over the years. But wasn't that a sign he should stay? His dear mother needed him—Bridget too.
Yes, Bridget was to be married. Graham could not refute that simple fact. But if their bond was even half as strong as he suspected, even her friendship would be enough to keep him afloat in the turbulent waters of life as a country duke. He had given up his sister and had eventually lost her; he needed to be as close to Bridget as possible.
He wanted her, but he could settle for being simply her friend.
Couldn’t he?
Graham rode out to the edge of the forest, then back down the hill toward the lake. He had not yet visited the site of his sister’s untimely death, and his chest clenched at the prospect of seeing where she had passed. They had spent many happy days there in their youth, and that Mary’s life had been stolen on that very place, even doing something she loved, felt wrong.
The lake came into view a moment later, shimmering blue in the sunlight. A family of ducks swam across its surface and into some nearby reeds, quacking merrily, with no less than ten ducklings in tow. Graham slowed his horse’s gait to avoid frightening off the wildlife, but a few water voles slid into the water as he approached, anyway.
He circled the lake once at a leisurely trot, many things on his mind. He had yet to discover what had truly happened to Mary, and why his sister’s maid, Jane, had behaved so strangely upon his arrival in Hertfordshire. He wanted to learn more of Lord Bragg, too—of how he was ‘cruel,’ according to Warren.
And then, of course, there was Bridget—beautiful, unobtainable,distractingBridget. The minutes ticked by ever so slowly while Graham whiled away his day waiting to meet with her again. He circled the lake once more, looking for any clue as to how Mary had managed to have her accident, but found nothing.
What had he been expecting, though? A splash of blood where she’d lain in the direct aftermath? Carved up grass from her horse’s hooves?
A snake wove through the reeds to the left of the path, and it occurred to him that perhaps it had been an accident after all. Just because her death was unfair did not mean anything bizarre had occurred. Mary was a skilled rider, but horses were living beasts, with silly fears and anxieties. If a snake had slithered across the road, there was every chance it had spooked her horse, and she had been thrown off its back, resulting in her fateful fall.
Maybe Graham simply wanted to believe there was more to her death for as it was, it did not make any sense.
Death was easier to make sense of when there was an identifiable culprit.
After visiting the lake, he rode toward the village, resisting the urge to go straight to the Sedgwick house. Instead, he found himself at the churchyard, where birds now sang in the trees overlooking the small plot of tombstones. The Barnet mausoleum sat at the top of the tallest hill, the stone columns shining white now they’d been washed with rain, his family name emblazoned at the top. Four generations of Barnets were buried there, entombed in those stone walls and, hopefully, resting peacefully. All had died from causes that made sense. Childbirth, consumption, scarlet fever, or ailments that had plagued them for a long time—like his father’s weak heart. Their deaths had a cause, a reason. It did not mean that they hurt any less or that the grief did not sting as badly, but they were explainable. Mary’s? No. He’d never be able to reconcile the story of her falling off her horse with her passing.
Graham dismounted in front of the church and tied his horse to the nearest tree, then climbed the hill to the mausoleum. His sister had been put to rest beside his father. Grief had struck the Barnet household too often of late.
And now, his mother might be next.
Then what?