It was time that Bridget grew up and started behaving like a lady.
Her mother was quiet when she sat down at the breakfast table that morning, dressed once again in dark colors, just as she had been after Mary’s death. Sarah surveyed her for a moment over their tea, the two of them with grim expressions on their faces.
“You took laudanum again last night,” her mother said, her lips thin.
It was not a question, so Bridget was not quite sure how to respond. “Yes.”
The servants brought her a bowl of summer berries, but shecouldn't bring herself to eat them. She stabbed a raspberry with her fork, watching the juice run red into the white porcelain bowl.
It reminded her instantly of blood, making her stomach sick. Blood at the lake.
“You should know that I did not wish for any of this to happen,” her mother said suddenly. “But as ladies of Society, we are often forced into circumstances that do not necessarily suit us.”
Bridget cringed. “I understand that, Mother.”
“I have always been lenient with you,” Sarah continued, “and perhaps I let you run too wild, too free. Away from the expectations of theton, it can be easy to forget that we are creatures without resources of our own, and that we must use our feminine wiles to survive. Men are the ones who rule this world, and we merely live within it.”
Bridget frowned, looking up at her mother. “Why are you saying this?”
Sarah tried smiling at her daughter, but it transformed into more of a grimace. “You will learn to love Lord Bragg,” she said. “I truly believe that, even if you do not. And the sooner you abandon these foolish ideas about the duke, the better you shall feel.”
“Nothing untoward happened with Graham—Lord Barnet,” Bridget said, correcting herself. “We were consoling one another through our shared loss, it was nothing more.”
“You and I both know that is not true,” Sarah said, steepling her fingers before her. She, too, seemed to have forgotten her breakfast. “You have loved Graham Barnet since you were a girl, and I understand how that can stay with you, and muddle your decisions. But if the duke is a rake, then he is not a safe gamble.”
“It is gambling that got us here in the first place,” Bridget muttered.
Her mother gasped, and Bridget instantly knew her folly. They had not spoken of her father’s debts since he had left Hertfordshire, as her mother was deeply ashamed.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Bridget said. “That was not fair.”
“Nor is our reliance on men to sustain us,” Sarah said. “And yet, here we are. We have found ourselves in quite the predicament, my darling girl.”
Bridget twirled her fork in her fingers, furrowing her brow. She could not parse her mother’s intended message. Did she wish to encourage her, or to tamp down her dreams?
“I need to go for a walk,” Bridget said. “I may even go for a ride, if you’ll allow it.”
Sarah looked despondent as she swallowed hard, finally settling in to eat her breakfast. She picked up her fork and sighed, shaking her head.
“As long as you don’t see the duke, I have no opinion on the matter,” Sarah murmured with a frown.
So, they ate the rest of their meal in silence.
And Bridget tried not to panic at the look her mother gave her—as if she was sending her to the gallows.
* * *
Summer had returned in full swing in the wake of the unseasonable rain surrounding Mary’s death. When Bridget took her sketchbook and mounted her horse to ride out into the countryside, the air was thick and humid, pulling curls from her chignon to coil about her forehead. She had changed into a cream-colored riding habit and a plain black skirt, with nothing but her short stays underneath. She had no time or energy for ceremony. Not that day, and perhaps not ever.
She planned on going to the willow tree at first, where she knew a comfortably cool spot and a blanket awaited her, but her heart clenched when she remembered visiting the spot with Graham not two days prior. Now, that, too, had been taken from her, now that she knew the real future she faced.
So she rode aimlessly, following the winding trails across the hills that she had once so enjoyed riding with her best friend. She could not feel Mary’s spirit there with her now. The pain of her death was still keen, but Mary, at least, was free. Bridget found herself wishing for that same freedom, the specter of death so near, she could almost feel its cool presence, even in the heat of the morning sun.
It made sense, then, that she would end up riding toward the lake. It was as if her horse knew exactly where she was headed—to the cool embrace of oblivion. She needed somewhere to cry and to draw, a place that was familiar. That it happened to be the place of her greatest pain was no coincidence. Without Mary’s death, she would have never ended up betrothed to the infernal rogue Lord Bragg, doomed to a life on the cold moors.
The lake was placid and shining in the sunlight, a jagged line of gold laying across its silvery surface. A family of ducks lived in the reeds on the opposite side, and Bridget thought that seeing the little ducklings might lift her spirits, so she rode in that direction.
And in that moment, it felt as if the past was colliding with the present.