She exited the villa with Bijou and followed him as he raced across the grass. She thought he might go into the thicket but when he veered right and ran down the main garden, her heart sank. She could not bear the thought of going near the daffodils again.
“No, boy! Come back!” she called, but Bijou paid her no heed and continued toward the bright yellow flowers. He stopped at the edge,just as he’d done earlier that morning. Perhaps he thought George still lay there. She recalled how much Bijou had enjoyed the poet’s playful personality. George always had a stick to throw for Bijou and never seemed to tire, no matter how many times her pup wanted him to throw it.
Bridget stood frozen and gazed at the daffodils from afar, recalling the first time she’d met the young man. He’d wandered through the gates of Villa De Lacey, drawn there by the daffodils, which he’d come to admire. She’d spotted him when she’d emerged from the thicket that surrounded the garden—a place Bijou loved. He’d seen a squirrel on the lawn and chased the poor thing back into the thicket where the little creature scrambled up a tree. And there it sat, taunting Bijou from above as he yapped incessantly at it. There’d been no getting Bijou away as long as the creature sat there staring down at him, so Bridget had scooped him up in her arms and taken him out of the thicket. And that’s when she’d seen George, admiring the daffodils.
As soon as she’d set Bijou on the ground, he’d raced toward the handsome stranger.
“Hello!” George had knelt to pet Bijou, who’d promptly rolled onto his back so George could scratch his tummy. “Who do you belong to?”
“He’s mine,” Bridget had said. “And if you keep doing that, you’ll have made a friend for life.”
George had glanced up at her and smiled. “Good,” he said. “I adore dogs as much as I adore Wordsworth and daffodils.”
And with those words, he’d won Bridget’s friendship.
“Well, you’re welcome to come and see them whenever you like. Are you visiting, or have you recently moved to Westmorland? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I’m a poet. And I’ve come on a pilgrimage with my two friends. We’re secretly hoping to meet Wordsworth.”
“How wonderful. Perhaps your wish will come true. He issometimes out and about on walks, and he’s been known to take a rowboat out on the lake. Where are you staying?”
“In a tiny cottage about half a mile from here. It’s the perfect halfway mark between Braithwaite and Lake Windermere. A lovely, secluded spot. Also, we can’t afford much else.” He’d chuckled. “Nothing like this place,” he said, gazing up at Villa De Lacey. “Are you the mistress of this beautiful villa?” he asked.
“I was once, but now I’m just the hostess.”
“I don’t understand,” George had said.
“It’s my family home, but it now belongs to Mr. Squires. Together, we decided to turn it into an inn,” she’d said, not wanting to explain her entire history.
“Oh yes.” George’s eyes had grown wide as he reexamined the villa. “I heard about this place. The ‘murder inn’ they call it.”
The memory of those prophetic words made Bridget’s blood run cold, slapping her back to the present. She scanned the garden and, not seeing Bijou, walked cautiously forward, her legs shaking and her heart thumping in her chest. “Bijou.” She clapped her hands together. She hoped he hadn’t gone into the daffodils again. “Bijou!” She ran toward the flowers, her heart racing.
“Bijou!” She stopped by the daffodils and scanned the flower beds. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here,” she said weakly. “They’ll make you sick.” Her legs felt shaky, and her body trembled. The image of George’s body flashed in her mind.
Just then, Bijou came racing out of the thicket and across the garden toward her, his tail wagging madly. Bridget felt her heart lift. Her dog was safe, and his happiness and joy for life was infectious.
“What were you doing in the thicket again?” She picked up her dog and held him close as she gazed out at the daffodils. Had Papa’s death by his own hand left a permanent cloud over Villa De Lacey? Were they indeed now cursed? There was something so sinister and awful about butchering a man in a field of flowers. Especially since thedaffodils had been a place that brought George such happiness.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Nate’s voice sounded behind Bridget, and her heart jumped as he came to stand beside her.
“Oh, you frightened me.” She pressed Bijou close. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I’m sorry.” Nate smiled. “I spotted you from the drawing room, so I came down to meet you. I’ve been waiting for you to come back. I was worried.”
Bridget suppressed a smile. She liked the fact that Nate cared. But his worry had been unnecessary.
“I shouldn’t have left you there alone,” Nate said.
“Where? In Braithwaite, where I’ve lived all my life? Or with Mrs. Groby and her children? Do you think little Edmund is the killer?” Bridget immediately felt a stabbing pain in her heart.How can I joke about George’s death? Have I become so callous—so accustomed to murder—that I am able to joke about my friend’s brutal killing?Shame spread from her chest up to her throat and across her cheeks.
“Are you well?” Nate blinked at her. “Did something happen in Braithwaite?”
“No,” Bridget said. “I just…it was fine. I did my best to comfort Mrs. Groby, and then Mr. Collins came to check on her, so I left.”
“Collins? What did he want?”
“He said he wanted to check up on her. He felt bad for her, I think.”
