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Mary’s presence was so keen in that place, even on the sunniest of days. Before now, Bridget had never been superstitious, not even if she was disposed to flights of fancy, but she almost believed that Mary’s ghost might appear at the lake and drag her under the water, where she belonged. Running across the unconscious Graham had been strange indeed, and she had truly believed his to be Mary’s body, reappeared as some kind of horrible, arcane revenge.
When she returned home, she was relieved to discover that Oliver wasnot backyetand that her mother had gone into the village. Thus, she was left uninterrupted when she appeared at the manor sopping wet, hurrying up the stairs and to her roomto avoid any of the servants’ gossip. She didn't dare to call Tilda for assistance, instead tossing all her clothes into the laundry basket for washing before changing. Bridget had grown accustomed to taking care of herself since her father's financial ruin, and she did not hesitate to launder her own garments.
Tilda found her hours later in the solarium—not painting, but just staring at old works of art depicting happier days. She glanced up at her lady’s maid who was clutching a plain envelope in her hands as she entered.
“What is it?” Bridget asked, her brow furrowed. Sometimes, she worried it might be a message from her father. They came so rarely, and almost always carried bad news. If she did not marry soon, Sedgwick Manor would be lost any day now, gambled away.
“A letter for you, my lady,” Tilda murmured. “It just arrived a few minutes ago.”
“From whom?” Bridget asked.
Tilda’s eyes sparkled. “His Grace, my lady.”
Bridget's breath caught in her throat, and she extended her hand with a desperation unbefitting of a lady. She dreaded reading what he had to say, but she couldn't wait to see the words he had written. Shetore it open, unconcerned about what the servants thought of her relationship with the duke.
It was a quickly scrawled note, written with a strong, steady hand. His words were short and business-like—nowhere near the poetry he loved so dearly. Bridget scanned the note with a sense of wrongness, feeling that there were too many things left unsaid between them.
“What is it?” Tilda asked, still standing beside her, waiting for the news. Bridget knew her lady’s maid was nearly as invested in her friendship with Graham as she was, though perhaps for the wrong reasons.
“He is returning to London,” Bridget murmured. Her voice cracked slightly as she said it, and she rushed to get ahold of herself, taking a deep and steadying breath. “He wishes to see me before he goes.”
“For what?” Tilda asked.
“Just to say goodbye,” Bridget said, then frowned. “No… to give me something very important.”
“Something important?” Tilda asked, peering down at the note in curiosity. “What do you think it could be?”
“I have no idea,” Bridget said.
“Not… no, it can’t be,” Tilda said.
Bridget looked up at the maid. “What are you thinking, Tilda?”
Tilda hummed thoughtfully, then said, “What if he means to propose?”
Bridget scoffed, dismissing the thought, even though it filled her with hope. “He wouldn’t,” Bridget said. “He knows I’m meant to be married. Can you imagine the scandal?”
“Maybe in London. You know how they like to gossip in the city. But here in the country?” Tilda clicked her tongue. “It’s a possibility.”
“And one that, if true, I must avoid,” Bridget said. “Tilda, you must know this is a matter of financial security for my mother and me. Lord Bragg is a lifeline for us, and we cannot turn down his help when it is so freely offered.”
“It is not freely offered when he requires your hand in marriage,” Tilda said. “And the duke is a man of great repute, along with having a great family fortune. This could be—”
“I cannot even consider it, Tilda,” she interrupted. “You fill my head with such fairytales.”
“A life lived without love is no life at all, my lady,” Tilda said.
“My father’s gambling habits have robbed me of that life,” Bridget said. She smoothed her skirt and tossed the letter on the table beside her with a grimace. “Do not think me naïve. I am a woman now, and I know my responsibilities well. I was born a lady and, as such, a bargaining chip for powerful men.”
“You should not think of yourself that way,” Tilda said.
“But isn’t it true?” Bridget sighed, biting her lip. She was starting to get upset now; she did not want to get upset, not again. “We have been over this a thousand times, Tilda, I do not have a choice in the matter. I must do what is best for my family, and there is only one choice left.”
“Bridget, please take care with yourself—”
“Do not call me that,” Bridget said. “I am a lady, and I should be treated as such. You shall not refer to me so informally again.”
It was cruel, she knew it. Tilda had been with her since she was a child, and she knew her better than almost anyone else in the world. But Bridget could not tolerate such foolishness when there was so much at stake.
