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“You think too much of scandal when you need to focus on the task at hand,” Graham said. “I swear to protect you. Trust in me, Bridget.”
He kissed her forehead delicately, finding her skin cold and clammy. Bridget relaxed slightly, then tilted her head in a single nod.
“Yes,” she said. “Let us get beside a fire. I am cold indeed.”
“Wait, I must make sure the horses are comfortable first,” he told her, and she nodded. Working in silence, they unsaddled the two beasts and dried them as best they could with handfuls of hay. Then, covering the horses with blankets, they secured them in their stalls and gave them some oats for supper. The other horses whinnied and shifted restlessly, afraid of the storm.
At last, Bridget drew up the hood of her cloak, and they hurried out of the stables and up the gravel drive to the house. Graham swung the door open and slammed it shut behind him, the noise bringing Warren from the drawing room. Graham clutched her protectively at his side, unable to conceive of ever letting her go.
“Your Grace,” Warren said, his eyes wide. “We have been so worried. You had not returned, and the storm…”
He trailed off when he seemed to notice Bridget for the first time.
“Lady Sedgwick,” he said, bowing. “Your Grace, I did not realize you were bringing a guest.”
“I am terribly sorry,” Bridget said mechanically, as if it was nothing more than an ordinary social call. “My visit was not planned.”
“Of course,” Warren said. “You are both drenched. Please, the fire is lit in the drawing room. Come and dry yourselves—”
“Mary?”
All three paused and looked to the drawing room, from which Graham’s mother had now emerged. She looked as if she had been dozing; her hair was adrift from sleep, and she was wrapped in a woolen dressing gown. Fanny peered at Bridget as if she were dreaming, and Graham held his breath as he waited for the inevitable disappointment that this was not her dear, deceased daughter.
Bridget, realizing what was happening, cautiously pulled back her hood.
“No, my lady,” Bridget said, her voice small. “It is I, Bridget Sedgwick.”
Graham’s heart ached as he saw the sequence of emotions on his mother’s face: shock, despair, anguish. But then she rallied, and rushed forward to take Bridget by the hands.
“You poor girl,” the dowager said. “Yes, come in. As Warren says, we must get you both beside the fire, warm and dry. Warren, have some tea brought up, and ask Cook to heat up some stew or soup, will you?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Warren said, speeding off to do as he was bidden.
“Now,” Fanny said. “Come with me—both of you.”
Graham kept his arm wrapped around Bridget as they followed Fanny out of the entryway and into the drawing room, where a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Fanny laid out a blanket on the floor and moved to help Bridget out of her cloak as Graham removed his jacket. The poor girl was shaking like a leaf, her face pale, her fingertips practically blue.
Fanny looked to Graham, and with one look, he tried to tell her that Bridget was not the fiend they had believed her to be. Fanny took his cue, and she knelt to take Bridget once again by the hands.
“You poor things,” she said, looking from Bridget to Graham. “What in God’s name were you doing out in that storm for so long? Graham, I expected you home long ago—especially when the rain began.”
“Bridget and I were talking,” Graham said, “and she had some… revelations to share. I do not know if she wishes to recount her story to you, but it is of the utmost importance that we keep her safe here, and in secret too. I shall be going straight to the village for the constable when the storm abates.”
“May we send word to my mother that I am safe?” Bridget asked. “She is not at fault in any of this, and she does not deserve to be punished.”
“Punished?” Fanny repeated, frowning. “Dear child—whatever for?”
Graham chose his next words carefully, knowing his mother had only just recovered from a nervous attack so severe it had left her bedridden. Still, she was strong, and she seemed to be on the mend. Not only that, but he was certain she would not allow him to protect her from the dark secret Bridget had revealed.
Warren emerged from the foyer at that moment, carrying a tray of tea. He set it down on the low table between them and poured into each cup. Graham had to reach out to help Bridget steady her hands as she raised the steaming cup to her lips. She took a sip and looked better almost at once, her cheeks flushing pink.
“Bridget,” Graham said. “I still do not know the whole story, but I would like to tell the constable the tale in its entirety. Won’t you tell Mother and I what happened that day?”
Bridget swallowed hard, holding the cup in her shaking hands. She nodded.
“Yes,” she said. “It is hard to do, though.” She looked up at Fanny, who reached out to grasp her by the shoulder. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Fanny nodded. “If it has to do with my daughter, yes,” she said. “I must know what happened to Mary.”
