Chapter Eight #2
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. ”
Bridget felt her face redden. “That’s—no—you’ve got it all wrong. I’m still mourning my papa. You mustn’t—”
“I won’t,” Lady Luxton said. “Don’t worry. I shan’t say another word.” She took hold of Bridget’s arm and gently pulled her away.
Bridget glanced at Lady Matheson, seeing her in a new light for the second time that day.
Her words had both pleased and comforted Bridget.
It was refreshing to have guests who treated her like the granddaughter of the man who built Villa De Lacey, rather than a burden to the man who now owned her home and her heart.
*
The next day, as Bridget was returning from her morning walk with Bijou, she made her way to the servants’ quarters at the back of the house.
Bijou scampered eagerly ahead of her, knowing that a bowl of delicious scraps would be awaiting him in Cook’s kitchen.
But he stopped abruptly as he neared the rear of the house and cowered back.
Bridget raced forward to see what had alarmed him, but before she reached him, she heard a ruckus that told her all she needed to know.
“Don’t you dare set that down, hear me! This be my kitchen an’ I don’t want it, so get it out!”
“I’m not going anywhere until I have delivered the order Mr. Squires himself requested.” Mr. Collin’s voice sounded.
Good heavens! Bridget picked up her pace.
The meat order must have arrived! She rounded the corner toward the back of the villa and saw Mr. Groby’s loaded meat wagon parked outside.
A few feet away, Cook stood with her hands on her ample hips, glaring at Mr. Collins as she blocked him from entering the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?” Bridget asked as she approached them, even though she knew full well what the problem was.
“Our new butcher—or so he calls himself,” Cook said, her cheeks as fiery as her red hair.
“I told him I don’t want none of Groby’s pork, and he keeps insisting that Mr. Squires ordered them for us.
As if I’d believe that Mr. Squires went to the butcher and put in for a meat order!
Gentlemen don’t handle their own meat orders, Mr. Collins.
If you were a real butcher, you would know that! ”
“Now, everyone, please calm down,” Bridget said. “As it happens, Mr. Squires and I did place the order when we visited Mrs. Groby yesterday.” She turned to Cook. “I took the biscuits you made for her children, remember?”
Cook nodded begrudgingly. “Aye, I remember. But it was just you who took them, not Mr. Squires.”
“We met on…Well, never mind that. The point is that we told Mr. Collins to deliver our meat order as usual. I meant to tell him without the ham, but I believe I forgot.”
“Forgot, miss? How? When they’ve been given a man’s heart in their feed? And it’s no wonder if Mrs. Groby was carrying on with that poet the way she’s carrying on with Mr. Collins now.” Cook gave a self-righteous sniff and re-planted her fists on her hips as she glared at the man.
“How dare you!” Mr. Collins said. “Mrs. Groby has done nothing wrong. As for me, I’m only trying to help a family in need.”
Cook opened her mouth and leaned forward to argue but Bridget got between them.
“Stop!” she said. “There’s no use in us standing here squabbling. Perhaps we can compromise. Mr. Collins, you’ll take the ham back with you to Mrs. Groby’s butcher shop and tell her we have no need for it this week. And you will leave the rest of the meat here.”
Mr. Collins gave Bridget a cold stare, and she almost regretted her offer of compromise. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and said, “It’s better than taking back the entire order, is it not, Mr. Collins?”
Collins stiffened his back. “I wish to speak with Mr. Squires.”
“Then you’re in luck, Mr. Collins,” Nate said as he came around the corner. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Your servants are refusing the meat you ordered.”
Bridget’s chest tightened. She was not a servant.
“I’m only refusing the ham,” Cook expostulated. “We don’t want to turn our guests into cannibals, that’s all.”
“Mr. Collins, first let me thank you for delivering our meat order so promptly. Now, why don’t you do as Miss De Lacey suggested? Carry the meat inside, but take the pork home, and we’ll pay for the full order. Mrs. Groby and her children can enjoy the ham as our gift.”
Collins narrowed his eyes. “Very well,” he said in a clipped voice, “I shall explain your position to Mrs. Groby.”
“You’ll send Mrs. Groby our best wishes,” Bridget said sternly, still stinging from the way Collins had referred to her as a ‘servant’. She was more than that, and he needed to be aware of that fact. “And you will thank her for the timely delivery of our meat order, considering the circumstances.”
Mr. Collins blinked and seemed to shrink down a little. “Of course, Miss De Lacey,” he said. “I will relay your message as you told it.” He doffed his cap. Then he hauled the mutton out of his truck and headed for the pantry.
“I don’t trust that one,” Cook said after Mr. Collins was out of earshot.
“I thought it was Mr. Groby you didn’t trust,” Bridget said.
“I don’t know no more. All I know is that I don’t like how quick Mr. Collins stepped into Groby’s butcher’s apron. It’s like he knew what was coming—like he—they…planned it all.”
“They? Do you mean Mrs. Groby and Mr. Collins?”
“Aye.” Cook narrowed her brown eyes. “I know you think Mrs. Groby an innocent woman, but people are mighty suspicious of that Collins taking over the butchery the day after her husband were locked away.”
“I don’t know that he’s taken it over. Mrs. Groby seems grateful for his help.”
“Seems right convenient.” Cook narrowed her eyes. “If you ask me, he’s the one who took Mr. Otis’s heart and fed it to those pigs.”
Just then, Mr. Collins came back outside and picked up the remainder of the meat order.
“Well, I’d best go see to my kitchen,” Cook said and followed Mr. Collins inside. Bijou chased after her, barking. She stopped and laughed at the terrier. “Don’t worry. I ’aven’t forgotten your scraps. Come along.”
Bijou’s tail wagged madly, and Bridget laughed. “I’ll be there in a minute,” she called after them. Then she turned to Nate and said, “So we’re not the only ones who suspect Collins.”
“Not anymore,” Nate said. “And if people in the town are expressing similar doubts, that might slow the magistrate down a little, but we need to take advantage of the time we have.”
“So, what do you suggest we do?” Bridget asked.
“I think it’s time we take a trip to York,” Nate said.