“I’m not sure,” Graham said. “She seemed… well, she seemed afraid. And she told me it wasn’t my fault that Mary died.”
“Of course, it wasn’t,” Warren scoffed. “It was an accident.”
“But Mary was always such an excellent rider,” Graham said. He glanced back at his sister’s casket, grief once again wracking him. Though he was meant to be composed, he imagined the tears would come eventually. “Are you quite certain itwasan accident, and not a…?”
“Your Grace,” Warren said. “What else could it have been but an accident?”
“I don’t know enough details to say whether or not her death was an accident,” Graham said.
“I believe that’s a matter for the authorities, Your Grace.”
Graham glared at Warren, lifting his chin, and the butler withered under his stare.
“But,” Warren continued, “if you truly wish to know more, you should speak with Lady Bridget. She was with Lady Mary when the accident happened; she can certainly speak to the truth of the matter.”
Graham narrowed his eyes. “I’ll go and see her now. I presume she still lives at Sedgwick Manor? I’ll need a horse—”
“I wouldn’t recommend going to visit her without warning, Your Grace,” Warren warned. “Lady Bridget has been quite beside herself since your sister’s death, and she is in much the same state as your mother. If you’re going to get any… information, as it were, it had best wait until after the funeral.”
Graham could have denied Warren’s suggestion. He was merely a servant, after all. But that wasn’t the kind of man Graham was, and he refused to treat his servants with disrespect, especially not when Warren had done so much to help raise him.
Graham sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I suppose I’ll wait until after the funeral, then.”
“Thank you,” Warren said. His wrinkled face creased in a smile as he put his hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Your Grace. Your father would be proud of how you’ve kept your composure tonight.”
Graham shook his head. “I’m hanging by a thread, Warren.”
“I know—but the pain will fade,” Warren said. “Now let’s get you settled into your rooms. You have a long day ahead of you with the funeral this afternoon.”
Graham followed Warren up the stairs and into his old rooms, where rain streamed down the windowpanes in the dawn light. The bed was neatly made, and the room had been recently dusted, though it still smelled somewhat stale. Soon, he was alone with nothing but a change of clothes, a single lighted candle, and the patter of rain on the glass.
So… Bridget Sedgwick would be his first lead.
Graham hadn’t seen her in years—not since he’d left Hertfordshire for London after his father’s death. Did Bridget, too, suspect there was more to Mary’s death than everyone else assumed? And if so, would she respond to Graham’s questioning? He knew she’d once carried a torch for him, but he didn’t know if she had suitors of her own nowadays, nor if she was still the same rather rambunctious young woman he’d known in his youth.
That was for tomorrow, though. For now, Graham needed sleep—even if that sleep would be plagued by nightmares of his sister’s death.
CHAPTERFOUR
When Bridget awoke the next morning, groggy with laudanum and distraught from the night’s disturbing visions, Tilda was already bustling around the room. The maid's liveliness jarred Bridget, who was still in a haze, especially with the pain of Mary's absence still fresh in her mind—yet it energized her enough to sit up, rising slowly and furrowing her brow.
“Good morning, my lady,” Tilda said, tilting her head in respect. “I’ve left some tea on your bedside table, should you wish for some. Your mother had me bring it up.”
Bless you, Mother. You understand the pain of my losing my best friend.Bridget looked to the side table and found a steaming cup of breakfast tea, sugar and cream already stirred in.
She picked up the cup and sipped her tea carefully, breathing in the scent of lavender and bergamot as she made sure not to scald her mouth. It soothed her, the steam filling her lungs and warming her after a cold and dreary night.
“How did you sleep?” Tilda asked, moving to the large wardrobe opposite the bed.
Bridget propped herself up on her pillows and sighed, looking out at the still, rainy hills beyond the windows. “As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she said. “At least, once I’ve taken the laudanum, I don’t remember my dreams.”
Tilda gave her a sad, sympathetic smile. “Take comfort in it, my lady,” she said. “When my dear sister died, bless her, I had no such draught to help me while away the sleepless nights.”
Bridget felt a pang of sympathy for the older woman. “I didn’t know.”
“The loss of a kindred soul is no small thing,” Tilda said. “And I know that you and Lady Mary were just that.”
Bridget’s lip trembled, but she didn’t speak; she merely looked steadfastly into her tea. The porcelain cup was too warm on her fingers, but the heat reminded her that the world wasn’t all death and gloom.