“Have you heard anything of the duke since his arrival back in Hertfordshire?” Bridget asked. Tilda was busy pulling clothes out of the wardrobe, hanging them up in the dim sunlight filtering through the window. “Mother said he had returned for Mary’s funeral.”
“The porter was down in the village this morning and told me that a carriage bearing the Barnet family crest came through in the wee hours,” Tilda said. “Are you looking forward to seeing His Grace?”
“Yes,” Bridget said. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances.”
She finished with her tea just as Tilda came to help her out of bed. The maid’s hand kept her steady; she was still woozy from the laudanum, shaking it off only now that the tea was working its magic. She followed Tilda to the looking glass, where she stood in front of the mirror and allowed the maid to help her dress.
First came a fresh shift, which she donned behind the screen in the corner, then her corset. Bridget fought back a wave of lightheadedness as Tilda tightened her stays, straightening her back and shoulders. Next, she put on a modest cotton petticoat, along with her stockings.
Bridget only had one mourning dress, and the last time she had worn it was to Mary’s father’s funeral, the late Duke of Hertfordshire. Bridget had been only sixteen at the time, and Tilda had spent the past few days modifying the dress to fit her new curves. Still, it was too tight in the bust, and Bridget hated how it put her body on display. It was more difficult to be modest now that she was a woman, especially given the dream she’d had of Graham the previous night. She didn’t want him to see her that way. Not at Mary’s funeral, at the very least.
“Is there nothing we can do about… this?” Bridget asked, gesturing helplessly at her protruding bust.
Tilda gave her a pitying laugh. “You’re grown now, my lady,” she said. “There is nothing wrong with it.”
“It’s just that I don’t want His Grace to think I’m some kind of harlot,” Bridget sighed. “It feels disrespectful.”
“I’m sure he’ll think no such thing,” Tilda said. “He will be grateful for your solemn company. The two of you will need a companion through the next few weeks.”
Bridget bit her lip, regarding herself in the mirror once again, trying to restrain herself from judging too harshly. The dress was modest enough—plain cotton with puffed sleeves, not shimmering silk like the gowns she wore to the Season’s parties. She swallowed hard as she remembered the last time she’d worn it, with Mary weeping by her side.
This was the dress in which she would say goodbye to her best friend.
The last piece of her attire was a black veil. Tilda tied her hair into a sensible braid that circled her head, then she fixed the veil with a comb of pearls. Bridget straightened her shoulders and looked at her reflection—her tall, dark form almost unrecognizable.
“I’m not ready, Tilda,” she murmured.
Tilda’s brow creased in sadness. “We never are, my lady.”
* * *
Rain fell on the surrounding green hills as the nobility of Hertfordshire and the neighboringcounties gathered to pay their respects to Lady Mary Barnet. It was June, and the sun should have been shining brightly butit was as if the entire sky was weeping for Bridget's best friend.
Bridget arrived just before noon at the Barnet estate. She hadn't eaten anything that morning, so she felt dizzy as she and her mother walked up the stone stairs toward the wooden double doors. Despite the rain, it was warm enough for the humidity to cling to herskin, and when she entered the foyer, she found herself quite hot and parched.
A small group of mourners had gathered inside, and black umbrellas dripped by the front doors. Theywould gather first at the house, and then the funeral procession would carry Mary's casket down to the village's parish church, where she would be interred in the family plot. The mourners camefrom the families who lived closest to the estate, but that did not mean they were friends.
Bridget curtsied to the various lords and ladies in the foyer in a dance she knew well—albeit one that was normally carried out in the ritual of courtship. All the boys and girls she had come up with over the years were there with their families—all except Mary.
Bridget kept her head held high as she tried not to weep, biting her lip so hard that it bled. The great room was to the left of the foyer, and she could already see that it had been draped entirely in black curtains. Candles were lit throughout the room, their flickering lights dancing over a chestnut casket in the center.
Beside the casket stood the man she had dreamed about so often as a girl… and then again the night before.
Graham was stoic and calm, his hands crossed politely in front of him, wearing a tailored black waistcoat under a black jacket. His dark-blond hair was swept back from his face, with a single, stubborn curl laying across his forehead, while his coal-black eyes were ringed with red. He had been weeping, that much was obvious, though he showed no sign of grief beyond that. Instead, he kept his posture straight and tall, his muscled shoulders never wavering as he spoke with the visitors.
Disparate emotions warred for dominance in Bridget’s chest: joy at seeing him again, anger at the other mourners interrupting the moment of privacy, and deep, abiding sorrow at the sight of her best friend’s casket. She fought the urge to rush to Graham and take him by the hand, to pull him to her and tell him how very sorry she was for the loss they shared.
“Lady Bridget?”
She turned to find one of Mary’s distant cousins from the north, Imelda, standing beside her. The girl was a few years their senior and had always been horrible to Mary on her yearly visits to Hertfordshire. Indeed, she was the last person Bridget wanted to see just then, and found herself grateful for the veil as she suppressed a glare, reaching out to take Imelda’s offered hand.
“Lady Imelda,” Bridget nodded. “My deepest condolences.”
“And to you,” Imelda said. “I know that you and Mary were quite fond of one another.”
Bridget swallowed the lump in her throat. “We were.”
“You were with her during, er… the accident, weren’t you?” Imelda asked. “Such a shock. I always took Mary for such a skilled horsewoman whenever I came down for the summer as a child.”