“Why do you let these women swipe at you so?” Katie asked. “You are just as good as they are, and you need to show them that!”
Bridget took hold of her friend and hugged her tightly. She had to let them swipe at her. That was how she was raised. She had never been one for conflict.
“You are a good friend,” Bridget whispered, then left before Katie could try to stop her again. “Thank you for being so kind to me.”
Bridget walked to her carriage, wishing that what Katie said was true. Sadly, it was not, and Bridget’s guardians had made hervery aware of that for as long as she could remember.
‘Be grateful. Not spiteful. You live a life that those of your class would only ever dream of.’Her guardian’s words hissed in her mind.
They were nobles. Bridget was not. In fact, she had come from the lowest class of society before her birth mother sold her to a noble family who could not have children of their own when she was two.
She knew very little about her real parents. Only that her father had supposedly left her mother when Bridget was a baby, and that out of desperation to give Bridget a better life, her mother had given her to the Viscount and Viscountess of Wilmington. The only thing she had left from that life was a token her mother had left her with: an ivory cameo brooch set in silver.
“Good evening, Mr. Conway,” Bridget greeted her butler with a weary sigh as he opened the door for her.
Pain laced through her mouth as she spoke, and only then did she realize that she had clenched her jaw tightly the entire way home. She reached up to rub at the pain, wishing she could stop herself from the constant clenching. It was a coping exercise she had used since she was young. A silent, invisible way to keep her pain and harsh thoughts inside. One day, though, she feared she would clench so tightly she would crack a tooth.
“Good evening, my lady,” Mr. Conway offered kindly.
“Has His Lordship arrived home yet?” she asked, pulling off her cloak.
She did not miss the flash of sympathy that sparked through the old man’s pale blue eyes.
“No, my lady,” he answered, his tone quiet. “I am afraid that he has not.”
Bridget was not surprised. Nor was she concerned. She, however, was starting to grow suspicious. She and Warren did not share a bed; they barely ever shared a conversation. But that did not mean that she ignored him. In fact, she knew her husband’s routine quite well.
Usually, in a fumbling, drunken state, she would awaken around three or four each morning to the sound of him stumbling through the hallway toward his chambers, shouting at the inanimate objects that dared get in the way of his drunken footsteps.
No matter how foxed he was, though, or how little sleep he got, Warren was always up at precisely half past seven. He would take a bath, have breakfast in his rooms, then go to his study to review his schedule and reply to correspondence before departing for the day. Every so often, he would disappear for a long weekend, but he had never been gone for more than three days before. Until this week, at least.
“Worry not, my lady,” Mr. Conway offered kindly. “His Lordship is no doubt on his way home as we speak.”
Bridget gave him a wan smile, appreciating the fact that he was trying to offer a bit of comfort.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “Send Eve and Mona to my rooms, please. Have them bring up some water for a bath as well.”
“Of course, my lady,” Mr. Conway replied, giving her a respectful bow as she headed toward the stairs.
As Bridget slowly climbed the stairs, she took a moment to take in her surroundings. She may be lonely, but she was lonely in the lap of luxury. Their London house boasted twelve bedrooms, and each one was decorated with the best that only money from nobility could buy, but… Bridget raised a curious brow as she thought of this, taking a closer look at the main hall’s high walls. Were her eyes fooling her, or were there fewer paintings than there were before? She looked down over the railing, and her curiosity grew. An antique table was missing. There was a tall, red-and-gold porcelain vase that normally sat beside it.
Deciding that her husband must have sold them to pay off another one of his gambling debts, Bridget shrugged and finished her journey up the stairs. Why should she care? These fine things were never hers, and Warren took joy in reminding her of that. However, she had noticed that over the past two years or so, more and more objects had been disappearing from their home.
“Shall I help you out of your gown, my lady?” Eve offered as Bridget reached her chambers.
“No, thank you, Eve,” Bridget replied, pulling off her white satin gloves. “I shall take care of it if you would please turn down my bed and help Mona with my bath water.”
The young maid curtseyed respectfully, and as she headed into the bedroom, Bridget made her way to the changing room, situated off her bedroom and opposite it, and to her bathing room. Before she began to undress, Bridget stopped in front of her floor-length mirror and took in her reflection.
Her honey-brown eyes were dull with weariness, and though the peaches-and-cream complexion of her angular, oval face was clear, there was no glow that most women of her station had. Shetouched a hand softly to her cheeks, ones that only a little while ago were inflamed with shame, and wondered what it would feel like to be caressed there by a hand that was not hers.
Her spirits dampening by the moment, Bridget reached for the pins in her dark brown hair and let her long curls free from the tight updo. Her baby blue gown came next. It was one of her favorites. Its design complemented her figure nicely, but the hem of the bodice remained a respectful distance from the swell of her cleavage, and the waistline hid the curve of her rounded hips.
She let the expensive gown pool to the floor, then stepped out of it. Left in nothing but the white shift she had worn beneath it, Bridget walked over to her vanity, where she was confronted with another mirror. And, as she often did when left alone with it, she thought of her birth mother.
How much did she look like her? Would she be proud that, despite the rumors about her husband, Bridget had married into nobility? Or the most burning question: was her mother even still alive?
Bridget put down her hairbrush and reached for the top drawer of her jewelry box, where she kept her mother’s brooch; something she did when she wanted to feel close to the woman she never got to know. As she opened the drawer, however, anger scorched through her feelings of loneliness and embarrassment. Pain roared as she clenched her jaw tight. There was no brooch. Only the indent on the blue velvet cushion where her mother’s heirloom brooch had always sat. It wasgone.She rose from her seat so fast that the cushioned chair toppled backward.
