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For a moment, as Graham pulled Bridget to her feet, he fought the impulse to wrap her in his arms. He'd never properly courted a lady before, but he could feel the heat between them building to an inferno as he recited his poem. He did what was gentlemanly, though, and set her on her feet, tearing himself away from her only by force of will.
“Where shall we walk?” he asked. “You know these woods better than I.”
“North,” Bridget replied. “I am enjoying this time away from the village; I wouldn’t mind being further away still.”
They left their horses at the willow tree, and together they set off into the woods. Bridget seemed to know the gnarled roots and mossy paths of the forest like the back of her hand, guiding Graham deeper inside until only the softest beams of light penetrated the canopy. A small, babbling brook ran alongside them, the water so clear he could see fish swimming across the stones beneath.
“I did not mean to upset you,” he said. “Keats has been a great comfort to me these past few days; I thought you might find some comfort in his words as well.”
“It wasn’t Keats,” Bridget said. “It was… it is simply difficult to talk about Mary.”
Graham nodded. “Does it pain you greatly to speak of her? We don’t have to if it’s too hard.”
“No, Iwantto speak of her,” Bridget said. “I hate it that she was here one moment, and gone the next. Mary was my best friend, and I will always miss her terribly. Yet, I want to remember the glorious days we had when we were together, and she was alive.”
Graham’s brow furrowed as he walked alongside her, sensing there was more to Bridget’s reticence than he had first realized. There was some secret behind her grief, he was sure of it. The certainty sat at the pit of his stomach and ate at him.
“Bridget, you were with her when she died, I’m aware of that,” he said. “But you have not told me exactly how it happened.”
“I was with her, yes, but I could not see exactly what happened,” Bridget said. “I have tried to explain that numerous times to the authorities, and your mother, and to the many nosy people who have intruded on my privacy.”
“I meant no offense.”
“And none has been taken,” she said. “I am merely… frustrated, I suppose. To relive that moment over and over again is to repeat the very worst moment of my entire life.”
“I understand,” Graham said. “Something else, then? What did Mary like to talk about?”
Bridget steadied herself, taking a deep breath as she calmed down again. They continued walking, and though Graham tried to meet her gaze, she would not look at him.
“You may not believe me,” she said suddenly, “but Mary loved the gossip of theton. Though she did not necessarily enjoy engaging in the Season’s rituals herself, she always had an ear to the ground in terms of who was courting whom and how.”
“Did she?” Graham chuckled. “She did not seem the type, though, apparently, our mother had quite an ear for such secrets in her youth.”
“Yes,” Bridget said, though her expression was vacant and distracted. “Mary loved to talk about the marriage market, and when the Season was underway, she could hardly be kept quiet. She would talk with anyone who would listen—with me, with other ladies, even with her lady’s maid, Jane.”
That caught Graham’s attention. He frowned and paused in their walk, making Bridget stop and look back at him.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Jane,” he repeated. He had scarcely thought of her since the morning of his arrival, but now the name sparked a memory. “She behaved very oddly when I came home to Foxglove Hall. She seemed troubled about something, and when Warren told me that I should speak with you, well, she fainted clean away. It was very alarming indeed.”
Bridget’s eyelashes fluttered, her lips parting as if she was unsure of what to say. “That is very strange.”
“Isn’t it?” Graham said. “Bridget, did Jane travel with the two of you often? I had the strangest feeling she was hiding something from me.”
“Conversation such as this is rather inappropriate, isn’t it?” Bridget said. “It is getting late, and I—”
Graham could see how agitated she had become, and he took a step toward her, grasping her by the shoulders. “Be at ease, Bridget,” he murmured. “I meant to cause you no distress. We can retire, if that is what you wish.”
“Yes, that would be wise,” Bridget said. “Lord Bragg is staying for the moment at Sedgwick Manor, as his home is far to the north, and he wishes to remain by my side in my hour of need. He shall soon return to the house, and I should be there upon his arrival. I would not want him thinking I’ve disappeared after all this ill fortune with Mary.”
“Of course,” Graham said. “Let me walk you back to the horses with haste.”
They turned around and increased their pace along thebrook, and the willow soon reappeared. As they approached, their horses pawed at the ground, eager to return to the stables. After all, it had gotten quite late. Graham extended his hand to help Bridget onto her horse, but she put her foot in the stirrup and mounted without his assistance, barely able to meet his gaze.
“Bridget, wait!” Graham said just as she started to turn her horse.
She paused, looking over her shoulder, and there was such pain in her green eyes that it struck him dumb.
