Bridget had four younger brothers and sisters—Max, age 6, Nelly, age 11, Zelda, age 13, and Christopher, age 15, and none of them could work and bring in any kind of wage. It then fell to Bridget’s shoulders to do something, anything, to keep her middle-class family afloat.
She’d suggested this to her father, Henry Cottrill, several weeks before, when she’d found him drunken and brooding in his study in the wake of the letter from the debt collector. The letter had been stretched out on the desk before him, and the Scotch bottle was half-drunk, and her father’s eyes had glowed with the brevity of what he’d done. “Father. Let me work. Let me send home money. Please. It’s the only way.”
Her father had only given half-protests. After all, he would have had to have been a fool to insist not. Bridget was well-educated, patient, kind, and she was every bit the perfect candidate to be a governess for a well-to-do family. She caught wind of one such family that required a governess soon afterwards, and she sent a letter of application, which was accepted only days later.
The wheels spun quickly, and very soon, Bridget found herself poised over her travel bag, packing up the various things she required for some time away. She was now only 22 years old—and she’d hardly spent much time away from her parents, beyond a month away a few summers previously, to visit her uncle and aunt in Bristol.
She heard the shuffle of feet from the door and whirled about to find little Max and Nelly, watching her as she stowed away the articles of her life. Max giggled, but Nelly’s face fell.
“Must you really go?” Nelly demanded. She stepped forward, showing herself to be every bit the wildly confident 11-year-old she was. Her dark blonde curls, similar to Bridget’s, swung across her red cheeks.
“What is this? I didn’t realize I was being spied upon,” Bridget said, forcing her voice to brighten. In this time of intense chaos, it was up to her to put on a wide grin, ensure her brothers and sisters that all would be well—especially since her mother had fallen to pits of depression, and her father rarely left his study.
Max cackled and rushed forward to draw his arms around Bridget’s waist. Bridget splayed her hand across his smooth curls, and her heart banged with sadness. “Don’t you worry yourselves,” she said, her brows high. “You know that I’ll be back in no time at all, don’t you? Perhaps you’ll be a bit older, a bit wiser—and a bit easier to handle.”
“Have we really been so terrible that you must leave?” Nelly asked, stitching her brows together.
Bridget recognized her mistake. She dropped on her bed—the very one she’d lain in since she was a young girl—and sighed. “Of course not, dear ones. But you know that I must take this position elsewhere. The Huntington family requires a governess.”
Max sniffed. His shoulders sagged dramatically, in the way only a young boy of his age could muster. Again, Bridget felt punched through the stomach.
“But can’t you be a governess somewhere closer?” Nelly demanded. “I know there must be positions close-by. Not all the way in Buckinghamshire. My, it’s half the world away!”
“The drama of this girl,” Bridget said, teasing her.
Of course, the reality of the situation—the dark corners of her father’s debt, along with the man Bridget yearned to run away from—shadowed her heart. She cleared her throat and insisted that the children sit on the bed while she finished the last of her packing. They did so, dutifully, and peppered her with continual questions about the children she was meant to care for at the Huntington Estate in Buckinghamshire. As far as Bridget knew, there were only two children—Kitty and Andrew, aged six and eight, respectively. Max was befuddled at this, stating that he, himself, was only six, and thusly required Bridget’s assistance and guidance more than strangers.
“Ah. If only it worked this way,” Bridget said, her voice heavy.
Bridget gathered her two travel bags and carried them down the rickety hallway and then down the steps, which creaked, showing the age of the house. Once she reached the foyer downstairs, she dropped the bags near the door and placed her hat on her head.
It was early April, and the air contained a sinister chill, one that the weather refused to shake off. Once she swept her arms through her coat, she batted her enormous blue eyes down the hallway. The final goodbyes came toward her like a wild train, and she ached to miss them—as she sensed they would blow her right over.
Max and Nelly donned their own coats and scampered out into the front garden. Slowly, Bridget stepped towards her father’s study, located near the kitchen, and paused at the sombre closed door. She inched her knuckles over the wood and rapped, the sound echoing off the inner belly of the room.
Her father’s creaking voice came back. “Come in.”
Bridget drew the door open to find her ageing father, his glasses perched at the far end of his nose, and the hair leaking off the sides of his skull. He seemed to be engaged in reading the first page of the paper, yet had the air of having been on that particular page for quite some time. His blue eyes did not sparkle.
“Father, I’ve prepared my things,” Bridget said. “I think it’s time to walk to town and catch the coach.”
Henry Cottrill cleared his throat once more and bowed his chin to his chest. “It’s been a woeful few days, knowing that it’s soon your time to leave us, Bridget.”
Bridget didn’t wish to dally on conversations like this one. Her mind was made up—her time had come. “You know it isn’t forever, Father,” she returned, although she hadn’t a clue how long she would be away. “Father, I know only that I must contribute back to the family. You’ve given me so much over the years. I will not allow this family to fumble a moment more.”
“Resilience. Like I used to have,” her father said. He stood and walked towards her, his motions staggered. He stopped and gave her the first half-smile she’d seen in weeks. “The children will miss you so. I’ll miss you so. It won’t be the same here at the house without you. Of course, you know that.”
Bridget’s eyes fell to the floor. Before she knew what to say in such a moment of intense emotion, she heard her mother’s voice ring out from the kitchen. Bridget drew back into the hall to find her mother, Margaret Cottrill, amble from the kitchen fire, her cheeks bright, and her motions frantic.
“Is it time?” she blared, echoing what she’d only just said.
“Yes. I’m afraid it is,” Bridget returned.
Her mother’s hands fell to her sides. She scrubbed them with her apron and spun round to address the two older children, Zelda and Christopher, who read at the kitchen table, which overlooked the back garden.
“Children, it’s time to walk Bridget to the coach.”
Zelda and Christopher, who’d always had something of a special bond—one that Bridget had always been jealous of, given the fact that she’d always been the eldest and had had to take on a sort of adult role—gave one another a deep, meaningful look, and then snapped their books closed.
Bridget wondered what on earth they thought about this entire affair, if they considered Bridget’s decision rash. There was very little her siblings could possibly understand about the given circumstances, and Bridget wasn’t to be the one to fill in their gaps. She didn’t wish her younger siblings to regard her father as anything but the stable provider, the man at the helm of their lives.
A strain filled the air, one that seemed impossible to tear through to say anything real. Her mother and father donned their coats and hats and kept their eyes to the ground. Zelda and Christopher seemed to do the same. Bridget opened the front door slowly to address Nelly and Max, who spun around, seemingly lost in the chaos of their game.
“It’s nearly time to go!” Bridget called to them.
But as she did, her eyes crossed paths with a pair of dark brown eyes, beaming out at her from the road. They were eyes she very much knew. Aaron Barlow had been her next-door neighbour since Bridget’s birth. He was 24 years old, a man she held countless memories with. And, in the course of discover
ing this position in Buckinghamshire, Bridget had been centreed on a single fact: as long as she was far away, she wouldn’t be required to marry Aaron Barlow, despite his intense wishes.
Aaron stepped into the front garden. His presence was startling, confident, the sort of thing that couldn’t be ignored. Nelly and Max’s smiles slid from their faces, and they pressed themselves into a tiny line and gazed up at him. Aaron paused and turned and gave them a slight smile—to his credit he had always appreciated her siblings.
“Good afternoon, Cottrill Family,” he said, his voice booming. “I suppose today is the big day. The day we lose our Bridget.”
Bridget stepped down the stairs and remained on the garden path. She felt her father press pass her and address Aaron, his hand outstretched.
“Good afternoon to you as well, Aaron,” her father said, his voice boisterous. “You’re looking quite well.”
Bridget detested this, a bit—when her father put on an act around strangers. Despite her and Aaron’s seemingly continuous bickering over the previous weeks, she’d never given Aaron a reason for her departure. She felt that informing Aaron of her father’s debts was an utter betrayal of her family. Besides, she didn’t trust Aaron. Not any longer. When they’d been young, he’d been one of her greatest friends, a boy who would have done anything to be with her, to play with her, to make her laugh. But in his older age, he’d shifted considerably.
Bridget couldn’t attribute this shift to the romantic nature of their newer relationship. Rather, she’d felt a sourness within him for quite some time. He’d grown testy, had been fired from multiple positions—and had even taken to drinking and gambling. Although he still expected them to marry, and although some small parts of Bridget still did love him a great deal—especially after so much history—Aaron was part of the reason Bridget had willed herself so far away. Goodness, she had to run.
“As are you, good sir,” Aaron returned to her father.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” her father said.
Aaron’s eyes shifted toward Bridget. She glared back.
“I wished only to say goodbye to your daughter,” Aaron said. “What an unhappy time it is for all of us. I wouldn’t have thought for a moment that your daughter would find a way away from us. Could you have imagined it?”
Henry let out a chuckle, one that Bridget necessarily found false. Aaron’s eyes returned to her, and he stepped around her father and said, “Bridget, I don’t suppose we could have a word?”
Bridget yearned to tell him to leave her, not to make this more difficult for both of them. But her mother and father’s eyes burned towards her, making this final demand, and Bridget agreed with a soft nod. She and Aaron walked to the left, towards the large oak tree that branched towards the April sky, its leaves shaking in the chilly breeze. Bridget crossed and uncrossed her arms. She felt Aaron’s rage emanating off of him like a wave. Her family remained near to the door, her father and mother stationed together, and the children in the grass.
“What is it, Aaron?” Bridget whispered, willing him to leave her.
“What sort of tone is that?” Aaron demanded. “Bridget. It’s utterly wretched that you’re doing this. After all we’ve been through.”
Bridget bit her lower lip, then said, “Perhaps if you had made a few different decisions throughout the years of our lacklustre courtship, I might have made up my mind differently.”
Aaron groaned and rolled his eyes. “How idiotic that sounds, Bridget. Truly it does. We’ve known one another since before we can remember anything else. Will you actually throw that away? For a governess position?” He chortled, and Bridget glared at him. His laughter grew menacing. “Bridget, you know very well my intentions towards you. I want nothing more than to make you my wife. And Bridget—”
Bridget pulled herself away as he tried to touch her elbow. She prayed her parents hadn’t seen her action, yet felt a sincere dissatisfaction at the prospect of his skin on hers. She glowered at him.
“Bridget, I’m begging you. Don’t go. Don’t go to Buckinghamshire. We require you here. Your siblings. Me. The family we could build together …”
As he spoke, Bridget’s heart again felt squeezed. For sincerely, she’d spent many hours of her teenage youth dreaming up the family she and Aaron might have created. How she’d loved him as a younger girl! Yet his anger still wafted up behind his eyes, and she felt that at any moment, it would rear its head.
“Aaron, you know I cannot marry you. I’ve told you of this,” Bridget said.
Aaron’s face clenched tight. “I’ve warned everyone in the area. Everyone. I’ve told them that if they come near you, attempt to court you—”
“You’ll what?” Bridget demanded. “You threatened their lives? That you’d beat them? How wretched of you, Aaron. Don’t you see that this is entirely what I wish to abandon …”
Still her voice remained low to ensure that her parents didn’t yet hear. However, the temperament between the two ex-lovers was very much apparent, and she felt the apprehension from her family. She backed away, distancing herself from this wretched man. How horrendous it was that times could change so quickly. Her father—now broke. Aaron—now an angry drunk, apt to destroy her if she remained there too long.
No, off to Buckinghamshire. This was the only way.
“Goodbye, Aaron,” Bridget said, her voice firm and a bit loud, to declare her means to leave to her family. “I wish you nothing but goodness.”
“You must wait …” Aaron blurted. He reached out once more, with that frantic energy Bridget knew would only end in disaster. Just in the nick of time, she drew towards her family, avoiding his touch, and gazed at her father, her eyes smarting with tears.
“Are you all ready to walk me to the coach?” she asked, her voice breaking.
“Are you finished?” her mother asked. She seemed almost dazed, as though she wasn’t fully aware of what had occurred between Bridget and Aaron. “We can wait a few moments more …”
“Mother, it’s quite all right,” Bridget said, sniffling. She turned swiftly and sped down the path, out towards the road, a trek she’d taken thousands and thousands of times throughout her life. How remarkable that this was the final time for a while.
Slowly, her father, her mother, and her four siblings followed after her, padding down the path. Christopher and her father grabbed her bags, which she’d forgotten in her rash run from Aaron. And soon, they were nearly a quarter of a mile from the house, the house she’d grown up in—and the one she’d regrettably forgotten to glance back at on her way out.
She brought the image of the house to her mind, and she shook with sadness, apprehension, knowing that her image left out several pieces. How much would she forget over her months away? When would she find time to return?
And when she did return, what would she be like, then? Would she see Aaron as a viable option, after spending so much time away? Would she be beaten down, fatigued, after so much work as a governess? She prayed for strength, yet wasn’t sure how much of it she could expect within herself.
After a few minutes, her heart slowed, and she was able to strike up conversation with her family once more. They kept to light topics, things that didn’t fully matter in the grand scope of their lives. Her mother asked her which of her dresses she’d packed and bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t brought her “most beautiful” dress. Of this, Bridget said, “Oh, it’s quite all right, Mother. I don’t suppose I’ll be doing much socializing.”
“Perhaps not,” her mother said, sounding regretful.
“Quite a journey you’re about to be on,” her father said. “Two days, it’ll take you. Correct?”
“That’s right,” Bridget affirmed. “Hardly been on a coach at all. Let alone … two days of travel!”
Nelly burst into tears upon this admittance. Bridget stopped, dropped down, and brought her hands over little Nelly’s, drawing them away from her wet eyes. “You mustn't be sad or frightened, N
elly,” Bridget said. “Truly. I’ll be gone for only a short time, and before you know it, I will have returned …”
A Wicked Duke's Prize: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 30