“Thank you,” Lady Matheson said. “I’ve tried not to act the fool about it all. I mean, I only knew the man for a fortnight. It seems silly that I should mourn a penniless poet far below my station. I know everyone is gossiping about it. They think I am some lonely widow desperate for attention.”
That was exactly right, though nothing that Bridget would admitto the lady. She veered toward the outer edges of the garden, where the thicket lay, and Bijou raced toward her. He loved the thicket, which was alive with rabbits, squirrels, and voles.
Thoughts gathered, she said, “I don’t believe anyone thinks that. And it doesn’t matter how long you knew Mr. Otis. You did know him, as did I, and he was your friend.” Bridget paused, glancing at the woman beside her. Lady Matheson’s face had a pained look. She truly was suffering. “I feel his loss, too,” Bridget said. “Mr. Otis had a way of making people like him. He was such a charming young man—so talented and enigmatic.”
“If you cared so much about Mr. Otis, why are you trying so hard to free that butcher who killed him? What he did to George was… barbaric.”
“I agree,” Bridget said. “And I’m not—would never—defend a person who was guilty of such a heinous act. But the rush to judgment and finger-pointing at Mr. Groby seems all too convenient. I’ve known the man since I was a little girl, and he has always been a decent member of this community.”
“Decent? The man publicly declared that he wanted to butcher George. He was jealous of him because his young wife was enamored with George. And why wouldn’t she be? He was, as you said, charming and enigmatic.” Lady Matheson wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye.
“His loss is a crushing blow for all of us.” Guilt gnawed at Bridget’s insides. Perhaps she was doing the wrong thing. What if Mr. Groby was guilty? Then she’d have been defending the indefensible—a man who took another man’s heart. She’d be defending the likes of those who desecrated her father’s body.
“They should hang him, and they should do it soon!” Lady Matheson said, and her vehemence brought Bridget back to her senses.
Lady Matheson’s emotions were running high. She understood the feeling very well. But that was also something of which she was afraid.She’d learned from past mistakes that things aren’t always as they seem. And a rush to judgment could lead to the death of an innocent man. She had to stay strong and keep fighting for Mr. Groby. His emotions had been spiked the night of the murder, and while that could make one say things out of turn, it did not necessarily make one a murderer. But she knew it was useless to try and explain as much to Lady Matheson. Neither she nor any of George’s friends were able to listen to reason. Bridget could only hope that the magistrate would give them a little more time.
They reached the end of the thicket and exited the gates of Villa De Lacey. Lake Windermere’s beauty never failed to take Bridget’s breath away. In all her two-and-twenty years, she’d never grown complacent to its splendor, for each day the lake looked different. The seasons and the weather changed its mood. Today, the sky was a bright blue, and the sprawling lake sparkled beneath the spring sunshine. The fells surrounding it were as green as emeralds. Bridget inhaled. Here was a sight to soothe the soul.
She glanced at Lady Matheson, hoping the widow was experiencing the same tranquility she was feeling. But Lady Matheson gazed at the lake with furrowed brows as if she wasn’t seeing it at all. She was somewhere else—someplace dark—in her mind. Bridget could tell because she’d been to such a place herself after she’d learned how her papa had died. Even the majestic Lake Windermere could not calm her soul then. She’d needed to purge the rage herself—that terrible black anger she’d never known could exist. It had come from a pain so deep that she’d felt helpless. All she could do at the time was scream and rage at the sky, and so that’s what she’d done until she’d exhausted her body. And then, it would start all over again. And so it went, until bit by bit, the pain lessened, but it never disappeared. That type of pain came from a deep loss. That’s what she was seeing here, and it told her that there was something more to Lady Matheson and George Otis’s relationship.
“I had a child once,” Lady Matheson said quietly, as if sensing that Bridget was ready to hear her story.
“Once?” Bridget echoed just as quietly.
“He was only a babe when he died.”
“Oh, my lady. I am so sorry.”
She smiled sadly. “He was a lot like George. Their coloring was the same. Moses was born with wisps of yellow hair and wonderful blue eyes. Even as a babe, he was full of life and love. I could tell he had a poetic heart, even at an early age.”
Bridget frowned. It sounded as though Lady Matheson was talking about George—as if she’d imagined her infant as a full-grown man in the form of the young poet. “So that’s why you gravitated toward George,” Bridget said. Finally, Lady Matheson’s relationship with him was making sense. She’d lost her son, but if he had lived, he would have been George—at least in her mind.
“Losing George has been like losing my boy all over again. He drowned in a pond behind our estate—stepped on the ice. He wanted to slide across it—adventuresome little one. But it was too thin, and…”
“How awful.” Bridget’s heart sank. This story kept getting stranger.How can a babe step on ice? Or decide he wants to slide across it all by himself?But perhaps he’d been a toddler—just a babe in her memory. “Was he alone?” Bridget asked and then instantly regretted her question.
Lady Matheson pressed her gloved hand to her eyes. “No, I…well… it was many years ago. He was so beautiful—perfect. It was no fault of his, you understand. No fault of his whatsoever.”
“Of course not,” Bridget said.
“The nanny failed in her duty to protect him. But he was always running away from her. He wanted to be free, and who could blame him?” Lady Matheson was becoming increasingly upset and confused, it seemed.
Bridget silently admonished herself for asking the poor woman to divulge the traumatic details of her child’s death and feeling guilty for assuming that Lady Matheson had had a romantic interest in George when she’d viewed him as her lost son.
“The heart never truly heals from such a loss,” the lady said. “And now the pain…it’s come back. It’s quite unbearable.”
“I know that all too well.” Bridget put a hand on the woman’s arm.
They strolled along the shore of Lake Windermere, taking in the sparkling lake and the green fells surrounding it. A sense of calm settled within Bridget as it always did when she was surrounded by the beauty of her home, and she hoped it was doing the same for Lady Matheson.
After a while, they turned and made their way back to Villa De Lacey. It was then that Bridget spotted Nate and Lady Luxton playing with Henry. All three were laughing as they watched the child’s paper boat bob along the water. Emotions warred within her. Her heart lifted for Nate. He was, she knew, the happiest he’d been since Lady Luxton had threatened to take Henry away for good. But she could not help feeling somewhat envious and also a little cross. Lady Luxton had owned Nate’s love, and she’d thrown it away. It did not seem fair that she continued to have such a strong hold on his life.
“That’s his child, isn’t it?” Lady Matheson said, and Bridget jumped, startled by the question.
“No, of course not. The child belongs to Lord and Lady Luxton.”
“Don’t look so frightened. I know how dangerous it is to say such a thing, and I won’t repeat it, I promise. I only want you to remember that what you see before you—this happy scene—is simply a father who loves his son, not a man who loves a woman. I’ve watched the two of you, and I’m certain you have his heart.”
