“Bridget?” Her aunt looked up from her embroidery. She wore a long-sleeved burgundy day dress with a ruffled white collar and bonnet.
“I have a guest with me, Aunt. It’s Mr. Hunt, the magistrate. He would like to speak with you—us. He’d like to speak with us.”
“What about?” Her aunt put her sewing down. “Did something happen?”
Bridget entered the drawing room with the magistrate in tow.
“Mrs. Brixton.” The magistrate bowed in greeting to her aunt.
“Do come and sit down, sir,” Bridget said, seating herself on the pale-blue velvet sofa next to her aunt.
The magistrate fiddled with the rim of his top hat and hesitated as though sitting down would commit him to staying longer than he wished. Bridget could see that something heavy weighed on his mind, and it caused her heart to drum against the wall of her chest.
“Please, magistrate. Sit.” Aunt Marianne gestured toward an upholstered velvet chair. “You’ll take some tea with us, won’t you?” she asked as Eliza entered the drawing room with a tea tray.
Magistrate Hunt cleared his throat and nodded as if coming to his senses. “Of course. Yes, thank you.” He relented and seated himself as Eliza set the tray on the table.
“You may leave it. Thank you, Eliza,” Aunt Marianne said as the maid started to pour the tea.
Eliza hesitated and glanced nervously at the magistrate.
“Thank you, Eliza,” Aunt Marianne said again.
Eliza curtsied, and retreated with obvious reluctance.
Aunt Marianne then busied herself, pouring three cups of tea. “Cream and sugar, magistrate?”
“Oh yes, two lumps of sugar for me. I enjoy a sweet cup.”
Aunt Marianne smiled and plopped two lumps of sugar into his cup.
Bridget noticed that the man’s hand trembled slightly as he accepted the tea from her aunt. He took a small sip before placing the cup back in its saucer on the table.
Bridget’s stomach twisted. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Something awful had happened.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Magistrate Hunt said, “I’m afraid that I have some bad news.”
His words sounded like a death knoll in Bridget’s ears. She placed her teacup on the table and folded her hands in her lap, steadying herself. “Is it Papa?” she asked, her voice quivering.
Magistrate Hunt nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said, and Bridget could see the pity in his blue eyes.
“Not Bernard!” her aunt squeaked. “Has something happened to my brother?”
Bridget reached for her aunt’s hand. “Tell us, sir. Please.”
Magistrate Hunt ran a hand over his full beard. “I received word early this morning, via letter, that Mr. De Lacey is”—he swallowed—“deceased.”
“No!” The exclamation came from the hallway, and Bridget looked up to see Eliza standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, and her hand clapped over her mouth. But Bridget didn’t have the time or the energy to reprimand the housekeeper for eavesdropping. She was toobusy trying to absorb the magistrate’s words, which seemed unreal.
Aunt Marianne’s quiet sobs sounded beside her, but she could not make sense of them. She felt as though she was trapped in a nonsensical dream.
“Deceased, you say?” Bridget repeated the magistrate’s words, not quite able to accept them.That can’t be right. Not Papa. I must be having a terrible dream. This can’t be real.She pinched her arm.None of it is real.She pinched herself again.Wake up, Bridget! Wake up!
“Miss De Lacey! Why are you pinching your skin? Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.” The magistrate was by her side, hovering over her.
Papa dead! How? It can’t be true!The room seemed to swim before Bridget’s eyes. She felt the nausea rise in her throat.
“Miss De Lacey?” The magistrate raised his voice. “Shall I call for Doctor Elias?”
