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Mother—I do not blame you for the circumstances that have led to my departure. You have been a wonderful parent for most all my life, and you taught me how to be a lady. You have tolerated so much with incredible grace, and for that I am grateful. I love you.
The first tear trailed down her cheek, and Bridget flicked it away with a sniffle. She had to remain composed. If she could not even write the note, how would she ever find a way to escape Oliver?
Tilda—You tried so very hard to help me out of a difficult situation, but I had to find my own way. I wish there had been another avenue toward a perfect life, but please take heart in the knowledge that you did everything you could.
She would not say goodbye to her father. He had done nothing for her, his neglect resulting only in ruin. If anything, she should accuse him. She wanted to scream at him, to inform him of what a horrible parent he had been.
But now, there was only one more person to whom she wanted to bid farewell.
Graham—
Even writing his name in such a way made her tear up again, and this time, she could not stop the tears. Bridget sniffled loudly, her breath catching as she stared down at the page, as a teardrop fell on his name, smearing the ink.
You have made me so very happy since I saw you again, and I wish things did not have to be this way. Please know that it had nothing to do with you or your sister or your wonderful family, and everything to do with the cruel hand fate has dealt me. I wish I could have been honest with you. I wish I could have told you how I felt, for you helped me to believe in love again.
She took a harsh breath, stifling a sob with her hand.
I dearly hope that you will find someone who will love you even more than I ever could. You are a good man and deserving of all the best things in life. And please, take good care of your mother. She has always been like a parent to me, and I am eternally grateful for her.
With love,
Bridget
She dried the ink with fine sand, trying to avoid more tears falling upon the note. Then, she folded it up and sealed it, tucking it away under her blankets. If she did not return, Tilda would find it when she stripped the bed to launder the sheets.
Bridget steeled herself as she headed back downstairs, taking a cloak with her in case the rain got worse. It was only drizzling, but she could feel a storm coming, the oppressive humidity bearing down on her as she mounted her horse. She almost thought she could hear the thundering of hoofbeats on the drive as she took off toward the lake, but she was not sure if it was Oliver’s approaching carriage, or the oncoming tempest. Oliver would be angry when he returned if he learned she was visiting Graham, but she could not be bothered with that.
This was far too important. And besides, she might not ever return to Sedgwick Manor.
Thus, Bridget looked back at her childhood home as she rode away on her horse, taking the path at a gallop. The fog rolled in as she rode, obscuring Sedgwick Manor.
And Bridget resolved then and there that she would not be going back.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Dark shadows fell on the lake as Graham made his way there, heading straight toward the approaching storm. He took more care on the treacherous paths, heeding his mother’s warnings about how the horse’s hooves might slip after an afternoon drizzle. When he arrived, the rain had stopped—at least for the moment—but the tempest in his heart remained.
A certain ambivalence had settled over Graham after speaking to his mother, calming him just enough to think more deeply about the situation with Bridget. He knew there was every chance that she had done something horrible to his sister, even if she denied it. True, he had not ever known her to be a devious or violent person, but financial woes could drive even the noblest of souls to the point of desperation. And the illustrations she had dropped in her haste to escape that morning were damning indeed, enough to have her apprehended by the constable if Graham put his mind to it.
But first, he wanted to hear her out. Partially, because he was a truly decent man, but also because he still loved her despite himself. The foolish, lovesick part of him that insisted on staying in Hertfordshire felt deep anticipation at the possibility of their meeting. If she did not come, he would be disappointed—and he hated that about himself.
How could he feel such strong emotions for one who might be so wicked?
Graham rode along the edge of the lake, dismounting and tying up his horse where they had met before. He could just barely see the lights of the village in the distance, a dense fog was rolling off the water’s surface and obscuring his view. Graham shuddered at the notion that it had been an evening much like this when Mary had died, and he half-expected her ghostly figure to appear in the reeds.
A rumble of thunder sounded to the east, in the opposite direction of the village. It was ominous indeed—perhaps an ill omen of what was to come. As the thunder subsided, another sound replaced it, and Graham realized it was hoofbeats.
Then he saw her.
Clad in a black cloak, galloping down the path at an almost reckless speed, Bridget crested the hill and rode toward him. Her hood was flung back, her face pale, her hair wet as if she had just come through a rain shower. He did not think the weather had already turned, but clearly he was wrong—and that foolish part of him felt some pride in the fact that she had braved the weather to speak with him.
It was the first sign she may not be as guilty as she seemed.
Yet there were other tests ahead.
Bridget raced toward him down the lake path, and for a brief moment, he worried that her horse would slip and he would witness her death, just as the sketches had depicted. But, much to his relief, she managed to stay on her horse and slowed as she approached. When she was close enough, she swung her leg over her saddle and dismounted, smoothing her skirts as she walked towardhim.
Graham feltsuddenly awkward and self-conscious. When he sat at the lake's edge that morning, he was surethat something was wrong—and when he overheard the servants talking, he was even more certain. Looking at her now, hisconfidence had vanished. For the woman in front of him could not be evil. Her green eyes were red from crying, but they still shone with inner light, as if she were the embodiment of goodness.
