“Store the body here?” Bridget said. “Impossible! That will be very disturbing to the other guests.”
“Bridget is right. We cannot keep her here!” Nate said. “We need to lay her to rest in the churchyard immediately. If her family is in London, it won’t do us any good to wait for them. Two weeks in this weather isn’t feasible. Tell the carpenter to come immediately with his finest coffin. I’ll pay double his asking price.”
Magistrate Hunt nodded. “Very well. I’ll let it be your decision. She’s your guest, after all.”
Nate looked at Bridget. “I suppose it’s time we go and announce her death to the others.”
Bridget squeezed her hands together. “This does not bode well for the inn. I imagine it will unsettle them a great deal. But at least it isn’t another murder.”
*
Not a tearwas shed on behalf of Lady Matheson. The only guest who seemed perturbed was Colonel Kendall, who thought it was a shame that such a handsome woman should die a widow.
“I wonder what she was searching for,” Bridget said later, when she and Nate were seated in the library. Bijou had settled on her lap, and she stroked his white fur. “It must have been something importantto leave her room in such disarray. From the state of the room, it looked like she was quite desperate to find something.”
“Perhaps it was the portrait,” Nate said.
“The portrait?” Bridget asked.
“The other day at breakfast, Angert demanded she return the miniature portrait he’d made of Otis for her. But she denied that she had any such portrait. Anyway, I suspect Angert snuck into her chamber at some point and took the portrait back, just to spite her.”
“Why would she have a portrait of Otis?” Bridget asked. “That seems a bit odd, doesn’t it?”
Nate sighed. “I suspect she was in love with him.”
Bridget kept the lady’s disclosure of her drowned son to herself. There was no point in repeating it. “How sad. Perhaps shediddie of a broken heart.”
“Although I can’t think why,” Nate continued. “A woman of her stature and—may I say—beauty; it seems unbelievable that she would even keep company with the likes of Otis.”
“Mr. Otis could be very charming,” Bridget said.
Nate shook his head. “I don’t see it. I feel as though there was more to their relationship—something we don’t know about yet. I simply cannot believe that a mature widow who has both wealth and beauty would fall madly in love with a young man she barely knew. It doesn’t make sense. A woman like that doesn’t die of a broken heart. That’s the stuff of romantic novels, not of real life.”
“Oh really?” Bridget could not stop herself from smiling. “And just how many romantic novels have you read?”
Nate frowned. “That’s not the point. The point is—”
Just then, Aunt Marianne burst into the library, her face ashen. “I gave her a pinch—just a pinch like the doctor said.”
“Aunt!” Bridget jumped out of her seat and went to her aunt. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve had a terrible shock.”
“Only a pinch, Bridget. You heard the doctor, did you not? He saidto give her a pinch and it will calm her down.” Tears rolled down Aunt Marianne’s cheeks.
Nate, who was already on his feet, raced to Aunt Marianne’s side. Then with his help, Bridget led Aunt Marianne to the settee.
“I’m going to pour her a brandy,” Nate said.
Bridget sat beside her aunt, holding her hand while Nate went to pour the brandy.
“I…I only gave…” Aunt Marianne’s words were lost in a sob.
“Shh, Aunt. Don’t try to speak now. Try to calm down first.”
Nate returned with his cognac and handed it to Bridget. “Here, Aunt. Take a sip of this. It will help your nerves.”
Aunt Marianne took the glass, but her hand shook so badly that Bridget had to hold the glass for her. She put it to her aunt’s lips. After a few small sips, Aunt Marianne seemed to steady.
“Now, Aunt, tell us what has made you so upset.”
