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“I shall go to meet with him,” Bridget said, “but only to say goodbye. Graham has always been dear to me, and I do not want… I do not want this morning to be the last time I see him.”
Tilda’s eyes narrowed in thought. “You saw him this morning?”
Bridget had not caught herself in time; her secret was now revealed. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“And what happened?”
“We spoke of Mary’s death, and of… our mutual admiration.”
“So there is something between you?” Tilda said.
“Enough, Tilda,” Bridget said. “Leave me in peace. I wish to think about what I shall say to Graham tonight.”
The maid bowed her head in a short curtsy and left Bridget alone with her thoughts.
She stared at the painting before her, then out through the solarium windows, her hands clasped in her lap. Yes, she knew what she had to do. Marry Oliver Bragg, then travel to Liverpool and spend the rest of her days in that dark house, in the company of a man she abhorred. She would do all that for the sake of a mother who had forsaken her, and a father whom she had not seen in nearly two years—not even for the holidays. Indeed, her father had not written to her on her birthday as he usually did, nor attempted to come home for Christmastide. Now, she was expected to save their reputations by marrying Oliver Bragg, and bear his heir. The idea of his hands on her, his lips pressed against hers made her sick to her stomach.
He was a horrible man, and he’d be a terrible husband. As for a father, he’d be worse than her own, she already knew it. Bridget pictured her future at his home, alone, with nobody to keep her company but her servants. Would he let her bring Tilda with her? Probably not. She’d not even have her. She’d be a stranger in a city surrounded by people whose accents she found difficult to make out, lonely and alone for all of her days.
Even if they had children, they’d be taken from her. She knew that because Lord Bragg had told her he’d been sent away to boarding school at a young age, and he intended the same for his sons. And finishing school for his daughter. No, if she married him, Bridget would be alone—forever.
Although… there was one other option.
Bridget had been drawn to the lake ever since Mary's death. As Graham had mentioned earlier, it was surprisingly deep, its cool depths home to an eerie siren song. It was where Mary had died, and the two girls had always done everything together.
She could go with her, she supposed. After everything that had happened, being in Mary’s company once again would be a balm to her weary soul, even if it was in death. Perhaps it was an omen that Graham wanted to meet her at the very place where Mary had died—that Bridget should follow her best friend into the shadows of the afterlife, facing Hades together.
It was too big a decision to make all at once, and she was far from hasty. So, she decided to go to the lake to meet Graham—and if she heard that siren song one more time, she would descend into the depths to be with Mary. She only deserved as much. She had been a horrible friend these past few weeks, and if she could have traded places with her, she would have.
So, as the sun set, she wrote a note and put it in her saddlebag, a goodbye to her mother, a good riddance to her father, and a heartfelt farewell to Graham. She wanted him to know that, if she chose to leave this world, he had at least made her happy during these brief, fleeting days.
Just in case she decided this night would be her last.
* * *
Graham could not stay in Hertfordshire any longer. Or at least, not while Bridget remained there. How odd it was that considering leaving her felt like a dagger to his heart just days ago. Now? Now her presence there had the same effect.
He packed his things that afternoon, leaving a few so he could return to stay with his mother after Bridget was long gone. Staying so close to her, though, was utter agony—especially now he knew how she had betrayed his sister. Even if Bridget and Lord Bragg were entirely innocent when it came to Mary’s death, they had done unspeakable harm to her reputation, bringing shame on both of them.
Graham could scarcely believe that no one had mentioned Mary’s engagement to him. Even his mother had kept it a secret throughout their whole conversation the last evening. Had she truly thought so little of him that she did not think he should have been involved in his sister’s courtship?
No. That could not be.
Graham was relieved that his mother had spent the majority of the day in bed. He didn't think he could talk to her in a civil manner now that he was so far removed from his sister's life. Yes, he had left for London and rarely returned, but he should have been included in their lives.
Or was it that he had abandoned them to such an extent, they did not feel he would evenwantto know Mary was to be married?
He was halfway through packing when someone interrupted with a knock at the door. “Come in!” Graham called, expecting Warren.
It was not Warren, however, but his mother.
She took a cautious step through the door, her gaze flitting down to his bags. She looked so much like Mary at times that he was taken aback, and this was one of those times. He could see her pain at his abrupt departure when she had only just awoken the night before.
“Mother,” he said shortly.
“Graham,” she murmured. “Warren informed me that you’re leaving.”
“I have business to attend to in London,” he said. It was a lie, but she did not need to know it.
