Chapter Twelve
It’s Madam Bouffant! Bridget realized, a shock wave zipping through her. The actress wore the same cherry-red evening dress she’d worn at dinner, and for a second, the absurd thought that blood had ruined the gown passed through Bridget’s mind.
“Good Lord!” Bridget cried, snapping out of her motionless state.
She raced down the stairs but slowed midway, not wanting to approach the body.
She’d never seen a dead person before—let alone a person she knew and had spoken with just hours earlier.
She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle the scream that sat in her throat and was about to turn her face away when she felt an arm encircle her.
She jumped back in fright, not knowing anyone else was there.
“It’s only me, Bridget.” Nate reached for her again. “Come here. Don’t look.”
She folded into Nate’s arms and pressed her face against his chest, grateful for the shield his warm, masculine body provided against the cold horror at the foot of the stairs.
The heat of his skin through his thin nightshirt and the power of his muscular arms around her—holding her tightly—made her feel safe.
“What is going on?” Lady Darby’s shrill voice sounded above. “I heard shouting. And why is that dog making such a racket at this ungodly hour? Has someone’s jewelry been stolen again?”
The guests, in various states of undress and in dressing gowns, began to gather at the railing, peering over to the horrific scene below.
“Good heavens!” Adelia and Lydia shrieked simultaneously. “She’s dead!”
“My God! Clarissa! No!” Lord Eamont came barreling down the stairs in his nightshirt, his feet bare and his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled from sleep. “No!”
Nate let go of Bridget and stopped Lord Eamont as he made to pass them on the stairs. “Don’t look at her. Turn around and go back upstairs. Comfort your wife and daughters,” he said in a low voice.
Lord Eamont blinked at Nate like a confused child, and Bridget’s heart broke for him, despite his treachery. She’d seen the same pain in her father’s eyes countless times after her mama had died. Lord Eamont had truly loved Madam Bouffant.
“Clarissa,” he said weakly. “Why? Oh, why?”
“Look away,” Nate said again, somewhat sternly. “Turn around and go upstairs to your wife and daughters.”
But Lord Eamont could not look away. He flicked his eyes back to Madam Bouffant’s lifeless body, breaking whatever spell Nate had cast over him.
He even attempted to push Nate aside but could not compete with Nate’s youth and strength.
He sagged against the younger man then, limp and visibly trembling as a sob escaped him.
To Bridget’s surprise, Frederick came down the stairs and took Lord Eamont gently by the arm.
“Come with me,” he said softly. “Don’t look. You don’t want to remember her this way.”
Lord Eamont clutched onto Frederick’s arm like a lost little boy and allowed himself to be led back up the stairs.
Bridget couldn’t take her eyes off them. Lord Eamont, a powerful viscount, was like a broken man, clinging to one who’d not long ago been at his mercy.
But not everyone was as sympathetic as Frederick. As they reached the top of the stairs, Lady Eamont approached her husband, and even from where Bridget was standing, she could see the anger in the woman’s expression.
As Lord Eamont turned his tearful face to his wife, she raised her hand and slapped him. The sound reverberated through the hall amidst the gasps from the onlooking guests.
“Mama!” Adelia and Lydia shrieked simultaneously.
“Good heavens!” Lady Darby said.
But Lady Eamont did not attempt to explain herself or apologize. She simply turned and walked away.
Lord Eamont didn’t flinch. He stood staring at nothing as if numb to the world as his wife’s anger spread across his cheek.
“Come along.” Frederick put his arm around Lord Eamont’s shoulders. “Let’s get you a brandy.”
“Someone bring me a sheet,” Nate shouted to no one in particular. “We need to cover her.”
“Yes.” Bridget nodded, relieved that Nate was able to think of all the practicalities when the sight of Madam Bouffant’s body had rendered her paralyzed.
“We also need to send for someone,” Nate said. “Is there a constable in the area?”
“No constable, but we have Magistrate Hunt, and perhaps we should send for Doctor Elias, too. Although, he can’t do anything to help poor Madam Bouffant now,” Bridget said as the cold reality set in.
One of their guests was dead! How had this happened?
Was it an accident, or was it foul play?
She shivered, fearing the latter and wishing for the warmth and comfort of Nate’s embrace again. But that moment had now passed.
“Agreed. I think it is wise to fetch both men,” Nate said, his tone brisk. “The doctor will determine the cause of death.”
Bridget shuddered.
“What do you mean, ‘the cause of death’?” Aunt Marianne appeared on the landing. “The foolish woman fell down the stairs. It’s plain for all to see.”
“It’s true, miss.” Eliza, still dressed in black mourning attire and carrying a white sheet folded under her arm, appeared next to Aunt Marianne. The two stood at the top of the stairway like reapers of death, dressed in crepe, looking down upon Madam Bouffant with passionless white faces.
For a moment, everyone fell silent, looking at the pair as if mesmerized by the scene. Then Bijou’s barking broke through the silence.
“You need to tend to that dog of yours, Bridget,” Aunt Marianne scolded.
Bridget had forgotten about Bijou locked in her room, and after a stretch of silence, the poor little lad had taken to barking furiously again.
“Not to worry, miss. I can take Bijou to the kitchen.” Eliza moved down the stairs with the sheet.
“Thank you, Eliza, but I’d like to tend to him myself. You go and help with the breakfast room.” Bridget wanted nothing more than to bury her face in Bijou’s soft fur and bask in the comfort of his innocent love.
Nate took the sheet and went to cover Madam Bouffant’s body, while Eliza and Bridget went back up the stairs.
“I think we’ve all had a terrible shock.
” Bridget paused at the top of the steps and addressed the guests.
“There’s nothing more to see. It’s early yet, so perhaps it’s best if everyone returns to their rooms and tries to get some more rest. The magistrate will be here soon, and I expect he will want space to do his work. ”
“I should jolly well think so,” Lady Darby said.
“All this nonsense has disrupted my sleep. I do hope you are still intending to serve us breakfast. My nephew’s wife must keep up her strength if she is to deliver him a healthy son.
She’s already a waif. If that child survives, it will be a miracle. ”
She looked to her nephew, who stood beside his pale, thin wife. The woman appeared to cringe in fear at Lady Darby’s remark. Her husband put his arm around her shoulders and led her back to her room.
“You needn’t worry,” Aunt Marianne said coldly to Lady Darby. “Breakfast will be served at nine o’clock as usual.”
The lady harrumphed and bustled back to her room.
“Well, I, for one, don’t see what all the commotion is about. If that woman fell down the stairs, the fault was all hers. She was a drunk.”
Bridget looked at the speaker in shock. It was the beautiful Lady Luxton. How could someone so angelic looking speak so coldly and cruelly of the dead?
“She’s broken her neck. Of course, there’s a ruckus,” snapped Mr. Jefferson, who was standing next to Dodsworth with his hands in the pockets of his silk robe. “Unless the breaking of necks is an everyday occurrence in your house, Lady Luxton?” He raised his eyebrows at the beauty.
Lady Luxton’s plump, cherry lips curved into a smile. “We all die,” she said, “some sooner than others. It’s as simple as that. No need to be a bleeding heart about it. You didn’t know her that well—or did you?” Her tone was accusatory.
Jefferson’s face blanched.
“Come now, Jefferson,” Dodsworth said. “Don’t waste your time on that”—he pressed his lips together—“unfeeling creature.”
As Dodsworth led his friend away, Jefferson shook his head and Bridget heard him mumble, “It’s Andrew all over again.”
She turned to look at the now-covered body on the floor. Was Madam Bouffant’s neck broken? If so, how did Mr. Jefferson know? And who was Andrew? Moreover, what had Lady Luxton been insinuating? Had Jefferson been another one of Madam Bouffant’s patrons?
*
Still shaken from the ordeal, Bridget returned to her room with her aunt.
Bijou accosted her the minute she opened the door, and she scooped him up in her arms and pressed him close.
The image of Madam Bouffant’s corpse was still imprinted on her brain, and Bijou’s warm, lively little body gave her a measure of comfort.
Bridget shut her eyes, trying to erase the image of death, but she could not.
Instead of Madam Bouffant’s lifeless body at the bottom of the stairs, she envisioned her papa lying there—blood pooling from his head the way it had from Madam Bouffant’s.
Bijou squealed, shaking Bridget out of her terrible reverie. She loosened her grip on the little dog, whom she’d squeezed too tightly in her distress.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to her pup, stroking his soft fur as he squirmed to lick her face.
“What did you say?” Aunt Marianne stood by the window, gazing at the rain.
“Nothing,” Bridget said. “I was merely trying to calm Bijou.”
Aunt Marianne sighed and turned to face her niece. “Good Lord, Bridget, what have we done? This used to be a respectable house. We used to be respectable people.”
“And we still are, Aunt.” Bridget walked to her bed with Bijou and sank onto her soft mattress. Exhaustion suddenly took hold, overwhelming every part of her body. “There is nothing disrespectful about trying to keep a roof over your head.”
Her aunt turned back to the window, and for a few minutes they both stayed silent, listening to the pattering rain. Then her aunt spoke again. “What was that woman doing creeping about the house while everyone else was asleep?”
What indeed? Bridget thought, as she caressed Bijou.
Surely, Lord Eamont wasn’t foolish enough to invite his mistress to his chamber, which was on the doorstep of his wife’s room.
Then again, maybe he didn’t ask her. Maybe Madam Bouffant went of her own accord.
She’d enjoyed flaunting her liaison with Lord Eamont in front of his wife, and Bridget doubted she’d heeded her warning to stop.
In that case, maybe she didn’t fall after all.
“The woman’s room was downstairs,” Aunt Marianne continued. “There’s only one reason she would have come upstairs, and it’s utterly disgraceful.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Bridget said more as a warning to herself than her aunt.
Aunt Marianne fell silent again, and Bridget lay back on her bed with Bijou snuggled in the crook of her arm. How she wished she could go to sleep and wake up to find that all of this had been a bad dream.
“I’ve had difficulty sleeping of late,” Aunt Marianne continued to gaze out of the window as she spoke. “And I see a lot from my room. Things come alive here after dark. Unmarried men and women mingling together unchaperoned in the middle of the night. It’s shameful.”
Bridget propped herself up on her forearm. “How can you see anything after dark? It’s pitch-black outside.”
“Not when the full moon is out.” Aunt Marianne turned briefly from the window to face Bridget. “And they carry lanterns. I see them moving about.”
“Well, that’s not a surprise. There’s no mischief in wanting to see the lake under the full moon. It’s lovely.”
“Oh, there’s mischief about, don’t be fooled. That actress was always roaming around in the company of men. It doesn’t surprise me she ended up at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Aunt!” Bridget sat up. “How could you say such a thing?”
“She was a sinner.” Aunt Marianne turned sharply on her words. “And your Mr. Squires—well, he’s not as innocent as you think.” She folded her arms and turned back to the window.
“What do you mean?” Bridget frowned, concern filling her chest.
“I’ve seen him in the garden with her. He’s no different from his friends.”
Bridget sighed. Who knew what her aunt thought she’d seen in the darkness?
Her imagination could have been playing tricks on her.
Bridget sank back onto her bed, resting her head against her soft pillow and snuggling close to Bijou, but she could not find peace.
Her mind wandered back to her aunt’s comment.
How many lovers had Madam Bouffant had? Could Nate have become one of them?
Just then, the door to her bedroom chamber opened, and Eliza stepped into the room. “I’ve come to help you ready yourself before the magistrate and doctor arrive.”
Bridget sat up. “Goodness, yes. I must hurry.” She slid off the bed and went to sit on the ottoman in front of her dresser.
She smiled as Eliza approached her, pleased that her lady’s maid had disregarded her request to forgo her mourning attire.
Eliza shared her loss and sorrow, and that was a great comfort to her. Lady Darby be damned!
Bridget handed her silver hairbrush to Eliza. “It’s a bad business this, isn’t it, miss?” Eliza said as she ran the brush through Bridget’s hair.
“It certainly is.” Bridget sighed, feeling the weight of the tragedy bear on her.
“I expect the guests will all want to go home now, won’t they?” Eliza said.
“Oh, I do hope not.” Bridget bit her lip. She hadn’t thought about the effect the death would have on the other guests. Especially, if the magistrate suspects foul play…
“I dare say it will depend on what the magistrate and the doctor determine,” Aunt Marianne said as if she’d read Bridget’s thoughts. “If they determine it was an accident, the guests have nothing to fear.”
“Of course, it was an accident!” Bridget exclaimed. “What else could it have been? Surely, we don’t have a murderer in the house.” Although the idea had crossed Bridget’s mind, saying it out loud filled her with dread.