Chapter Three
Bridget tossed her thick braid over her shoulder and tied on an apron. It was warm in the orangery, a pleasant change from the rest of the keep. The air hung heavy with the lemony scent of the geraniums she intended to prune, enlivened by the sweeter tang of oranges ripening on sturdy limbs.
As she reached for her gardening gloves, her gaze slid past the stunted citrus trees in their massive tubs to her favorite flower bed. There, jasmine grew thick and fragrant. The rich sultry scent beckoned.
With a smile, she forwent her gloves, instead turning to wend her way toward the far end of the orangery. She passed bright petunias and elegant lilies with scarcely a glance. Reaching the jasmine, she carefully broke off a sprig and raised it to her face. Lids drifting shut, she drank in the scent. It was mysterious, and alluring, with the promise of something wonderful hinted at in every breath.
She sighed and opened her eyes, then shook her head at her foolishness. What more was there than what she had? Nothing, really. Not until Ollie gave up his work and returned home to marry. Then his wife would be mistress of Lomall a 'Chaisteil. Father would no longer need her, for his letters wouldn’t be full of secrets. Any clerk could read and scribe for him.
Then Bridget could go…somewhere. Do something. She didn’t know what. She never permitted thoughts of this something, somewhere, to solidify. They would only taunt her, distract from the work at hand.
Which was trimming the geraniums. She tucked the jasmine behind her ear and returned to the oversized pots. She slipped on her gloves and hefted her favorite shears, studying her intended victims. By the time she finished, not a wilted leaf or fading bloom would remain.
The maid, Fiona, hurried into the orangery. She cut past the bountiful blooms without a glance as she came to stand before Bridget. “Miss, there’s a caller.” Belatedly, she dropped a curtsey.
“A caller?” Bridget repeated, stupefied. There was never a caller.
“Yes, Miss, a gentleman.” Fiona looked as surprised as Bridget felt. “A Mister Alex White, he says. He’s asked to see the master or mistress of the house.” The girl dropped her gaze. “I didn’t want to disturb your father.”
Had Fiona learned that Bridget had, despite the girl’s pleas, informed her father of the letters of reference incident, or was she simply, like everyone else in the household, intimidated by the looming baron? “Yes, best not to.” Bridget could deal with this Mister White well enough. “I’ll find out what he wants.”
She set shears and gloves aside before following Fiona from the orangery. The warmth and sweetness clung to her as they passed through low, vaulted stone halls. Even in the middle of the afternoon, candlelight danced in each alcove. Weapons and shields, many bearing heralds of long-dead vassals, punctuated the dark patches between the light.
They entered the newer part of the keep, the halls squared off but formed of the same gray stone. The ceilings were higher, and narrow windows admitted afternoon light, relieving the need for lit candles. Bridget strode into the small front parlor. Fiona followed her and took up a position to the left of the entrance.
Bridget’s first impression was of height and broad shoulders, but that was quickly replaced when the man turned from the window overlooking the steep, winding roadway leading to Lomall a 'Chaisteil. He was tall, yes, but gawky. If his shoulders had appeared broad, it must have been a trick of the afternoon light, for he hunched them toward his ears. Spectacles rested on the end of his nose. He pushed them up with a gloved finger and peered at her. His nearly-black hair stuck out at odd angles from under a comically crushed hat.
Before Bridget could greet him, he turned to Fiona. “Lass, I asked for the master or mistress of the house, not the housekeeper.” He nodded to Bridget. “Meaning no offense, Missus.”
Bridget halted halfway across the room, piqued. “Missus? I’ll have you know, sir, that I am the mistress of the house, and a miss.”
“You are?” He peered at her again. “I beg your pardon, Miss Sollier. An honest mistake, you know. I mean, given your age and…” He made a flapping gesture toward her.
“My age?” How dare he? Twenty-six wasn’t dead. “And what, sir?”
He repeated the flapping gesture, nearly knocking a vase from a nearby table. “Well, you know. That mess.”
Bridget looked down. She still wore her apron, but it was crisp and white, not a mess. True, her single braid was the opposite of fashionable, as far as she knew, but why spend hours curling her hair when no one ever saw her save the staff and her father? Well, and now this Mister White.
“I thank you not to take it upon yourself to comment on my attire, sir.” She snapped. “Why have you come here?”
“Ah, yes, well, I am Alex White, as you surely know.” He bowed.
This time, his flailing hand swept the vase from its table. Bridget let out a cry, leaping forward. Mister White made a fumbling catch for the vase and managed to knock it toward the rug. The blue and white porcelain landed on the carpet with a dull thud a moment before she dropped to her knees to catch it. She snatched the vase up and turned it round, but found no damage.
“Terribly sorry, again,” Mister White said. “Didn’t mean to, of course. Please, let me help you.”
A hand appeared between her face and the pool of her skirt against the backdrop of hunter green carpet. It was a large hand. Some might say elegant, if they hadn’t seen Mister White in motion.
She tipped her head to glare up at him. “No, thank you.”
“Then, ah, let me take the vase.” His gaze went to her ear.
Bridget touched it, finding the jasmine there. Perhaps he was a touch justified in his confusion over her role in the household, and his observation of her state. Still, a mess or no, he didn’t have the right to call her one.
“No thank you,” she repeated in a firm tone. “Fiona.”
Footsteps approached. Still glaring at Mister White, Bridget held up the vase. Fiona took the ancient porcelain. Ignoring Mister White’s still extended hand, Bridget stood. She shook out her skirts. He dropped his hand.
