“Why can't I go home, Raven?” she asked, using the nickname she'd given him.
Colin sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. He'd gone over it a hundred times with her, but she never seemed satisfied with his answer. “Because they think you killed your father and neither Bridget or I believe it. Until I can discover who did kill him, you're not safe there.”
“I not hurt Papa,” she said, big tears welling up in her eyes.
“Of course you didn't,” he said before trying to pry more information from her like he did every time the subject came up. “Do you know who did hurt him though?”
“Someone bad,” she said plainly.
“Of course someone bad hurt him,” he placated, “but who?”
Just like every time he asked her that, she replied in kind, “Not me, not me, I not hurt Papa.”
He spent the next quarter-hour trying to comfort her and assure her he didn't believe she killed her father. It was rather exhausting, and by the time he was done, he wanted nothing more than to get back to the Godwin Residence and continue his search for the killer, if only to bring the poor girl some peace. But now that he lacked help with Beatrice, he'd have to resolve that problem first.
“Are you up for an outing today? I need to go to Cheapside where my office is located and would love to take you if you'd like to go.”
He watched as Beatrice's eyes lit up for the first time since meeting her. “Can I pick out some sweets and a new bonnet?” she asked hopefully.
Colin sighed, “How about some new ribbons for your bonnet? And we'll have to forgo sweets if you want apple tart tonight.”
Beatrice scrunched up her face in thought. “Just one candy stick?” she pleaded, holding her index finger up before his face.
“Maybe, but only if you behave.”
She smiled and promised she would, and in no time, they were sitting side by side in his carriage as it hobbled along the street towards his office. The carriage pulled to a slow halt before the haberdashery, where Colin quickly alighted then turned to assist Beatrice. She hooked her arm in his and allowed him to lead her to the side of the building where a narrow metal staircase led up to his tight office.
The two of them maneuvered up the staircase and into the dark office where Colin lit a candle and began searching in the top drawer of his desk for the name and address of the woman who cleaned his office. She had told him once that she had a daughter who was seeking employment if he ever needed anything. Without any other feasible ideas, he thought he'd locate her and see if her offer still stood. The sooner he took care of this problem, the sooner he could deal with the larger one looming over him.
“Papa's office is bigger and nicer than yours,” Beatrice bragged from across the desk.
“I imagine you're right,” he said.
“But Papa isn't as handsome or as young as you are, Raven.”
Colin laughed at the compliment. “Thank you, Beatrice, that helps me feel somewhat better about my poor office.”
Feeling frustrated that he couldn't find the piece of parchment he was seeking, Collin slammed the drawer shut and moved on to another one.
“Do you like Mama?” Beatrice continued plying him with questions.
“I don't dislike her,” he replied, feeling no need to give his honest opinion of the woman.
“If you do as she wishes, she will always like you.”
“Ah-ha!” he shouted at last, finding what he was looking for. “Come, Beatrice, let's go get you a candy stick, then we have one more errand to run.”
Beatrice squealed in anticipation. “Can I get one for Bridget too? She likes the butterscotch ones best. Please, Raven, please?” she begged, tugging on his jacket sleeve annoyingly.
“Anything for Bridget,” he agreed, “Anything for Bridget.”
“No more,” Bridget insisted groggily as she tried to lift her hand and push the spoonful of liquid coming towards her away.
Her eyes barely pulled open as she attempted to swat at the arm coming at her. Her head felt heavy, and her body felt weak. She wasn't sure how long she'd been in bed, but somewhere in the brief moments of awareness, she'd realized that she was being given something that made it nearly impossible to wake up and she didn't want to take the offending liquid anymore.
The spoon came closer, and she pinched her lips together and exerted every effort to turn her head away to reject it.
“Doctor Byington says you need your rest.”
She didn't want to turn and look at who was talking to her, so she tried to recall the voice speaking in the haziness of her mind. It was a man, but he sounded much younger than Uncle Jasper though she still couldn't place his voice.
“I don't want to rest,” she mumbled, barely moving her mouth in fear he'd slide the liquid between her lips if she opened it too much.
“But you need to, Miss Godwin.” The voice was kind but persistent.
For a moment, Bridget wondered if it was Mr. Ravenworthe speaking, and her heart leaped within her chest. She turned her head slowly on her pillow and forced her eyes open. The vision before her was blurry, so she blinked several times until it cleared, and the man came into focus. With a swift thud, her heart fell to her stomach. It wasn't Ravenworthe; it was Mr. Townsend.
“How long have you been drugging me?” she asked, her voice accusatory — the small amount of trust she'd placed in him suddenly vanishing.
Mr. Townsend chuckled, seemingly unaffected by her ire. “You aren't being drugged. As I said, Doctor Byington recommended you get some rest in order to heal.”
Feeling some of her brazenness return, she hissed, “Sleep will not heal my broken heart or bring my father back to life. Where is Mr. Ravenworthe? Has he discovered who murdered Father yet?”
“Mr. Ravenworthe took Beatrice and left. We haven't seen him for days.”
In an unusual display of strength, Bridget bolted to an upright position, ignoring the way her head was spinning as she did so. “Days? How long have I been asleep?”
“Four.”
“Four!” she screeched, this time swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The sight of her bare calves peeking out below her nightdress made her cringe with embarrassment. “It's indecent of you to be here. Get out!”
Mr. Townsend held the spoon of laudanum out to her in a final offering. “Are you certain you won't take this? A little more sleep will do you good.”
“No,” she said forcefully as she pushed the spoon away. The sticky liquid sprayed across her coverpane as the spoon clattered to the floor. She knew she was behaving terribly, but her anger had been piqued. “A gentleman doesn't belong in a lady's bedchamber. Get out!”
Mr. Townsend rose to his feet, his face flush with embarrassment. “I apologize, Miss Godwin. I was only doing as I was asked. Your mother and uncle have been terribly preoccupied with settling your father's estate with his solicitor, so they asked me to see to your care.”
He was flustered, but Bridget ignored his apology. “My maid. Letitia could have and should have been in charge of my care.”
He sheepishly looked at the floor and shook his head slowly. “Your mother has dismissed the entire household staff.”
“Pardon?” she asked, unsure if she heard him correctly.
“She will have to explain to you her reasoning.”
“She will have to explain a lot of things,” Bridget hissed, determined to go find her and figure out what was going on.
With a quick bow in her direction, Mr. Townsend turned to leave. Just before he reached the door, she called out, “Where did Mr. Ravenworthe take Beatrice?”
He turned his head over his shoulder and replied sadly, “No one knows for sure, we haven't heard from him since he left.”
As soon as the door shut behind Mr. Townsend, Bridget went to her dressing closet and gathered the first thing she could find, an ivy green and white striped day dress with a matching green spencer, and began dressing herself. Her mind registered the fact that the outfit wasn't befit
ting someone in mourning, but she didn't care. She had more significant concerns troubling her.
She quickly plaited her hair and pinned it at the base of her neck before grabbing a bonnet and dashing from the room. She'd barely made it into the hall when she nearly swooned, sliding against the papered wall for support. Her head felt foggy and her body weak.
After a moment to recover, she forged on, much slower, until she reached the main level of the house. It was quiet and eerie without any servants bustling about. Bridget made her way to the drawing-room and at once, was assaulted by black baize draped walls and low burning candles. In the center of the room was a large coffin made of elm. Her heart lurched as she slowly made her way forward to see her father laid out, awaiting his final respects to be paid.
Elias's skin was gray and waxen against the white weave crepe lining of the casket. Bridget cringed and looked away, preferring not to remember her father in such a manner. She gasped when her eyes met another woman's, for the first time, realizing she wasn't alone in the room.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Bessy. I was hired by the funeral furnisher to keep vigil over your father until he is laid to rest.”
Bridget nodded slowly, wondering what else had occurred while she'd been sleeping her life away. “Very well. I will let you get back to your task.”
Purposefully avoiding the casket, Bridget exited the room, desperate to find her mother and get some answers. Next, she went to the study where she found the door locked, though she could hear mumbled voices from behind it. One of those voices she recognized as her mother. She lifted her hand to knock when she immediately remembered how her mother detested being interrupted. Lowering her hand, she hesitated as her stomach growled loudly.
With a sigh of resignation, Bridget decided she'd go find herself some food and wait until her mother was done before demanding some answers.
It was a rarity that Bridget ever sought out her own refreshment, but without any servants to send to fetch it for her, she had no other choice. The servant's quarters were usually a bustle of lively activity as each person came and went according to their tasks, but today it was silent.
She went to the kitchen and groaned when she saw Mr. Townsend sitting on a stool at the wooden butcher's block in the middle of the room, nibbling on a piece of bread. “Why are you even here?” she ground out irritably, hating that she couldn't seem to get away from him.
Mr. Townsend shrugged. “I was hungry.”
Bridget ignored him, searching in the cupboards for some food instead. Finding a hunk of cheese wrapped in cloth and a knife, she turned her back to him and began slicing large chunks off and stuffing them indelicately into her mouth.
When her hunger started abating, she slowed her chewing. Speaking around a mouthful of cheese, she clarified, “I mean, what are you even doing here in my house, in my life?”
“Your father and I have business,” he began explaining when she promptly cut him off.
“Had business, you no longer do.”
He slowly nodded his head. “But I came to London with Jasper and feel obliged to wait until he is ready to depart to take my leave as well.”
“Has he asked you to stay?”
Mr. Townsend sheepishly looked at his hands, taking a long time to inspect his nails as he formulated a response. “Miss Godwin, I know that it seems unpleasant to have a stranger around your house, especially at such a difficult time, but let me assure you that no one feels more awkward than I. I came with Jasper to discuss business with your father, investing my very last pound with his company in anticipation of making something of myself. Now, your father is gone, and so are my hopes and my money, and I have no other choice but to wait on the kindness of Jasper to see that I get home. I have no equipage of my own, nor the funds to hire a hackney, so here I am,” he finished explaining, his hands held out open before him.
Bridget's heart twisted with remorse. She'd been so unkind to him, yet here he was facing a conundrum of his own. “I could give you money to purchase your fare home,” she offered. His face fell, telling her at once that he'd taken her offer as on offense and not a kindness. “I do not mean to be rid of you,” she quickly clarified, “only that if it eased your burden, I would be willing to assist you.”
He smiled at her, though his eyes still seemed sad. “I appreciate your graciousness, Miss Godwin, but will wait upon Jasper.”
“If you change your mind, my offer still stands.”
“Thank you.”
With nothing left to say, Bridget excused herself and went upstairs. She passed the study, which was still locked. She sighed then debated where to go, what to do. She knew of a certainty that she did not want to return to the drawing-room or to her bedchamber, so instead, she stood in the middle of the hall feeling like a little lost kitten.
A loud, insistent knocking on the door jolted her from her thoughts, and she squared her shoulders and faced the front door waiting, out of habit, for Duncan to open it. Recalling they no longer had a butler, Bridget huffed and went to answer the door herself.
Pulling the heavy door open with a flourish, she gasped when she saw Colin standing there, a dark greatcoat with capes wrapped around his body to protect him from the chilly air. She vacillated between being angry at him for abandoning the investigation and elated at seeing him. So many questions swirled through her mind, yet none made their way to her lips, so she just stared at him befogged.
He leaned in and in a hushed voice said, “Come with me, I need to speak with you in private.”
Before she knew what was happening, Bridget was being swept away into his carriage. She was grateful for the solid seat beneath her as the vehicle pulled from the curb and took off, causing her to be thrown back into the seat.
Finally, she found her voice. “What's going on? Why did you take Beatrice and leave and not return?”
“Is that what they told you?” he asked in exasperation, his eyes registering sincere shock.
She dipped her head to her chest, “Yes.”
“They wouldn't allow me to return,” Colin exhaled in exasperation. “They wouldn't allow me to speak with you, and all of my correspondence has gone unanswered. I haven't had time to solve the riddle because I've been so preoccupied with finding help for Beatrice after my housekeeper refused the task. Today was the first time I was able to return, hoping and praying someone would allow me to speak to you.”
Bridget reeled from his confession. “They wouldn't let you continue your investigation?”
“No.”
“But they allowed you to take Beatrice?”
“I think they were excited at the prospect of me taking her off of their hands. I told them I would take care of her until my investigation was complete. They're not convinced she isn't responsible, and I refused to allow them to keep her locked up like an animal.”
Bridget tried to process everything he was saying, but her mind was still cloudy from the laudanum. Her fingers massaged her forehead, hoping it would help clear her mind. “I don't understand what's going on. I've been asleep for the past four days, drugged, actually.”
Colin rubbed his jaw, “Pardon? You've been what?”
“Drugged with laudanum, unbeknownst to me.”
“Something strange is going on in that house,” he said, gazing over her shoulder, back in the direction of which they had just come, “and I'll be damned if I let you get involved.”
“I'm already involved,” she pointed out.
His eyes refocused, settling on her face. “But you've yet to be harmed, that is what I truly fear in all of this.”
The protectiveness in his voice melted her insides. “You truly care about my safety?”
“Above anything.”
His words caused Bridget to feel safe, to feel cared for, which was a rarity in her life. She sat staring at him, basking in the unusual feeling and wondering why he cared about her so.
Out of nowhere, Colin spoke, intruding upon her thoughts,
“I'm certain your father was poisoned.”
Bridget gasped, both hands covering her mouth in surprise. “But he was stabbed to death; I saw the blood and the wounds with my own eyes.”
Colin looked past her, his eyes unusually focused, as if he saw something she could not. The silence that stretched between them was making Bridget anxious. Unable to bear it any longer, she cried out, “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
His head slowly turned until his eyes were looking directly at her, piercing her with a gaze that made her feel like he was looking into her soul. “I found it odd when inspecting your father's body that it was clear he made no attempts to stop his killer or try to defend himself. I hadn't deciphered what it meant yet until I was shown just now what happened.”
His confession caused his gaze to drop as if he were embarrassed. “What do you mean, you were shown?” she asked curiously, a cold chill slithering down the length of her spine.
“I shouldn't have said anything,” he admitted sheepishly.
“I disagree. I think you should tell me everything, Colin. Tell me,” she urged, something in the very fiber of her being telling her she needed to hear what he had to say.
Bridget sat staring, watching as the cogs turned in his brain, her breath baited anxiously as she awaited his response.
Colin felt as if all the air had been sucked from his chest as he stared across the carriage at a waiting, trusting Bridget. What if he told her about the images he sometimes was shown, and she think him nothing but mad?
He'd never before told a soul about them, not even Alistair, yet suddenly yearned to reveal everything to her. It was as if a great weight was suffocating him, and the only way to remove it would be by telling her, yet he still hesitated.
Bridget slid from her seat and came to sit next to him. She gently reached for his hand and gave it an assuring squeeze. “Are you afraid I won't believe you?” she asked softly.
Colin glanced at their entwined fingers, his heart racing from the tender contact. He wanted to trust her so badly he ached. “Possibly,” he admitted.
“You must banish such thoughts from your mind and relieve yourself by unburdening your soul. I promise I won't doubt or think you foolish.”
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