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“I’m certain she has her ways,” Warren said. “And Lady Mary… well, you may want to speak to your mother about it once she has fully recovered. All you need know is that Mary had her ways of getting out of the manor and around Lord Bragg, and Bridget most certainly shared that knowledge.”
Graham smiled, though it pained him to remember Mary. She had been vivacious indeed. “Very well,” he said.
He went to his desk and gathered his writing implements before scrawling a note to Bridget. He knew his handwriting wasn’t as good as hers, but it would do the trick.
You may call upon me anytime you wish, he wrote.I shall be at Foxglove Hall all day.
“Please, have the porter deliver this to the Sedgwick house with haste,” he said, passing the note to Warren. The butler rose from his chair and nodded his head in agreement. “And Warren?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Make sure it isn’t intercepted by Lord Bragg,” Graham said. “I do not trust that man one bit.”
CHAPTERTEN
Bridget knew from the moment Graham left that she had to speak to him again. She spent the rest of the day entertaining her betrothed, followed by a restless night in her room. She refused to take laudanum, preferring to keep her wits about her so she could devise a strategy for evading Oliver and meeting with Graham again.
She had never thought Graham would return to Hertfordshire, could never have foreseen the turn of events. She rued the day her father had agreed to Oliver’s proposal, when Graham was right there in front of her now and as wonderful as ever.
Around two o’clock in the morning, she crept down the stairs and into the solarium to draw, desperate to get the horrible images of Mary’s death out of her mind. She sketched for an hour at least, until she heard the servants moving around downstairs, at which point she hid the drawings and made a hasty retreat back to her room. It was only then that she was able to finally rest, imagining Graham was there beside her, holding her close.
The following morning, she slept late, and found herself suddenly free to do as she wished when Oliver said he was riding into town to see the vicar arrange for their wedding at the church. When Tilda arrived with a note from Graham, Bridget could not contain her exhilaration, and she hurried out to the stables. Moments later, she was galloping across the hills in the bright summer sunshine, headed for Foxglove Hall.
It was easy for her to forget how large the manor was after spending so much time there and becoming familiar with every single room. Shesmiled as she saw her home away from home take shape ahead of her, hazy in the summer sun. The manor was perched on the county's highest point, an ancient stronghold where Graham's ancestors had staked their claim hundreds of years before. It was made of white stone and surrounded by pink flowers. It had been rebuilt after a fire in the eighteenth century. Bridget dismounted at the front door and hurried inside, gratefully tilting her chin to the footman.
The entry hall was still draped in the colors of mourning, and the silence inside was deafening. She had laughed with Mary so many times that the house felt larger without the other girl’s warm presence, leaving it echoing and silent.
The butler, Warren, was waiting inside and greeted her with a warm smile.
“Lady Bridget,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you until later.”
She blushed. “I was anxious to speak with His Grace. I thought I would stop by during my morning ride.”
It was only then that she realized how disheveled she must look. She had not even asked Tilda to help her dress, lacing up her own bodice and donning her plainest, most inconspicuous brown riding habit. Her skirts were stained with mud, and her hair was woven into a loose braid under her hat.
“That is quite all right, my lady,” he said. “If you would like to wait in the library, His Grace will meet you there in just a moment.”
“Excellent,” Bridget said. “Thank you, Warren.”
She left him and went to the library, trying not to think about Mary.Prior to the tragic turn of events, she had only felt joy in the house. The library was where she first discovered love, her heart racing as Graham read poetry to her and Mary when they were children.
Only the entry hall and sitting room were draped in black, leaving the rest of the house bare. A stack of Mary's books remained on a table in the room's center, where two sofas faced each other. Bridget approached the table and took the first book from the stack, flipping it open.
Hamlet. Mary had loved Shakespeare. Bridget wondered what had intrigued her aboutHamletof late, so close to the hour of her own death. She ran her fingers over the illuminated lines of verse, noticing a few dog-eared pages where Mary had marked her favorite passages.
‘“When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions!”’ a deep voice said from behind her.
Bridget closed her eyes, recognizing the voice instantly. It was Graham, of course, come to meet with her in the library, his voice ringing with echoes of a happy past, even though the words were sad.
‘“I would not wish any companion in the world but you. Nor can imagination form a shape, besides yourself, to like of,”’ she murmured.
She blinked when she realized what she had just said to him, a blush painting her cheeks as she turned. He said nothing in return, and she closed the book with a soft puff of air.
“The Tempest,” she said. “It’s always been my favorite. I prefer the Bard’s comedies to his tragedies.”
“It is only a comedy because there is a marriage at the end,” Graham said. “But I would argue thatThe Tempesthas more than enough drama to be a tragedy.”
“We could argue over the definition of comedy and tragedy all day, and I would be glad of it,” Bridget smiled. “But now, I believe we have something to discuss.”
