Chapter Fourteen
True to Windermere’s changeable weather, the sky had cleared by midmorning, and the day showed no signs of the earlier storm.
The guests were thrilled and continued to behave as if nothing unusual had taken place—as if a woman hadn’t been lying dead on the cold, marble floor mere hours before.
They’d eaten heartily and then dispersed happily.
Some went for a stroll by the lake, while others went riding on the hillsides or took their carriages to one of the nearby villages.
That gave Bridget and Nate the perfect opportunity to interview Abigail and Sarah, whom Nate had summoned to the study.
Bridget glanced around the room. It was still very much her papa’s study.
His smooth marble globe, goose-feathered quill, and brass inkwell remained in place, as did the paperweight she’d gifted him from her trip to York with Aunt Marianne—a bronze bust of a little terrier resembling Bijou.
She hadn’t had the heart to pack up her papa’s study, and thankfully, Nate hadn’t asked her to.
He had taken to working in a downstairs room that had a small writing desk, but it wasn’t set up for taking private meetings.
Nate invited the two housemaids to sit on one of the buttoned-leather chairs that Bridget knew so well. As a little girl, she used to curl up on one of those chairs while her papa worked, often falling asleep as she waited for him.
Nate gestured that Bridget should sit in her father’s high-backed leather armchair behind the desk.
She hesitated. Did he want her to conduct this interview?
She slid into the chair, pleased that Nate was letting her take the lead in their “investigation,” but she wasn’t ready for the emotions that overwhelmed her as sat on her father’s seat, ready to conduct business the way he used to do.
She caressed the smooth leather on the arm of the chair, the way she used to do as a little girl when her papa would pull her onto his lap.
Delighted to be allowed behind his desk, she would touch everything within her reach, particularly the white-and-brown-spotted feathered quill that tickled her fingers as she ran her hand over it repeatedly.
Then Papa would suddenly lean back, pulling her with him, and she’d squeal at the sudden dip in her stomach, which would make Papa roar with laughter.
Bridget’s eyes stung. She wanted to sink into the leather fabric and allow the chair to embrace her as if it were the embodiment of her dead father.
Nate stood behind Bridget and coughed, pulling her back to the present.
“Are we in trouble, sir?” Abigail widened her green eyes flirtatiously at Nate.
Nate responded in a warm, friendly manner, saying, “Of course not. We only wanted to ask your help that’s all.”
To Bridget’s irritation, she could see that the maidservants immediately warmed to him while still eyeing her with suspicion. As they should, Bridget thought. She wasn’t here to watch them make eyes at Nate—what sort of maidservants were they to behave openly in such a manner? Unheard of!
“We need you to tell us everything you can about how you found Madam Bouffant this morning,” Bridget said, catching the two housemaids off guard. Surprise registered on their faces, and they exchanged a glance.
“I imagine it must have been a terrible ordeal for you,” Nate added kindly. “You had a horrible fright, didn’t you? I expect that’s why you ran away.”
The housemaids nodded in unison.
Bridget’s irritation faded. Nate seemed to know exactly how to handle them, she conceded. It didn’t matter to her how he got the answers out of the two wayward maids, just as long as he got them.
“It were terrible, sir,” Abigail said. Her wide green eyes and the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks made her look the picture of innocence.
“We were off to clean the grates and light the fires in the breakfast and drawing rooms on account of the storm, and that’s when we came upon her.
She were lying there, all twisted like. Her face were a deathly pale color and there was blood—lots of it. ”
Sarah, whose plain features were made all the more unremarkable next to Abigail’s, covered her face with her hands as if to block out the horrific memory.
“What time did you find her?” Bridget asked.
Abigail and Sarah exchanged another glance. “It were five o’clock, miss. That’s the time we are to start readying everything upstairs.”
Bridget pursed her lips. They weren’t telling the truth. The grandfather clock in the hallway had read half-five when she’d run to the stairs immediately after hearing the scream.
“And what did you do when you saw the body?” Nate asked.
“I saw her first,” Abigail said. “Sarah were behind me. I froze. I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. Then Sarah came along and almost bumped into me. When she saw the body”—Abigail swallowed—“she near screamed the house down. We didn’t want any trouble, so we ran.”
“Why would you be in trouble? You hadn’t done anything wrong, had you?” Nate said in a soothing tone.
“Wrong, sir?” Both maidservants shook their heads. “Not us, sir. We did nothing.”
Their repeated denials and fearful faces made Bridget doubt them.
“Did you touch Madam Bouffant at all?” Bridget leaned her forearms on the desk and clasped her hands together.
“Touch her? Lord no! I almost died of fright when I came upon her. Why would I touch her?”
“To check if she was injured or needed help, maybe?”
“She was beyond help. We could see that much,” Abigail said.
“It were so horrible.” Sarah shook brown springy curls as if to oust the memory.
“Did you perhaps run to get help then?” Nate asked, providing them with yet another chance to evade blame.
Again, both maidservants shook their heads. “No. We hid away, sir.”
“Hid away?” Nate repeated. “Why?”
“We were frightened.”
“But why hide?” Bridget pressed, suddenly wondering if she’d seen Madam Bouffant’s emerald and diamond brooch pinned to her cherry red dress at dinner the previous night.
She did not recall seeing it on the dead woman’s body, and it seemed unlikely that the magistrate would have failed to notice something so valuable.
Had Madam Bouffant been wearing it? If so, the maids could have stolen it and run away to conceal their crime.
“Did you perhaps take something that belonged to Madam Bouffant?” Bridget made eye contact with the servants.
“Take something?” Abigail exclaimed. “Never, miss. I wouldn’t touch anything that belonged to a dead woman. It’s like asking her to haunt you for the rest of your life.”
Bridget nodded. She was inclined to believe them.
Many people in these parts were superstitious about spirits and such.
And the chilling scream she’d heard suggested that they had been truly scared out of their wits—too scared to approach, let alone touch the body.
But if the maids hadn’t taken the brooch, then what had happened to it?
Bridget made a mental note to search the dead woman’s room and cursed herself for not doing so earlier.
“Did you perhaps see someone else there?” Nate asked. “Someone near the body who scared you?”
Both housemaids frowned.
“No, sir,” Abigail said. “All the house guests were asleep and the servants down in the kitchen at the early hour.”
“We were frightened,” Sarah reiterated. “That’s why we ran and hid, honest.” The maid looked from Bridget to Nate as if appealing for his help. “She were dead. And some folks say that the spirit of the newly dead sometimes lingers behind.”
Bridget wasn’t impressed by their innocent act.
They may not have stolen anything, and she didn’t doubt that they’d been genuinely frightened, but they still weren’t telling the whole truth.
“Is that the only reason you ran, or was it because you were half an hour late starting your work, and you didn’t want anyone to notice?
” She didn’t intend for the housemaids to be reprimanded, but she wanted them to know that she knew they’d lied.
Aunt Marianne was in charge of overseeing the servants, but she’d barely ventured out of her room of late.
She’d been severely wounded by the way the guests continued to treat her, and their cruel comments had made her lose her spirit.
Bridget knew she would need to take charge, and she wanted the housemaids to know that she was paying attention.
After all, if they were prepared to lie about one thing to avoid being reprimanded, why not another?
Abigail and Sarah started to protest and reaffirm their innocence, but Bridget stopped them, saying, “You’re not in trouble. All I want to know is what kept you up so last night that you weren’t able to rise on time this morning.”
“I think that’s enough questions for today,” Nate suddenly interjected.
“Excuse me.” Bridget turned and glared up at him. “I’d like to know why they were late,” she repeated.
“Is that necessary? They have had a terrible shock.” He smiled at the housemaids. “I think the two of you need a rest. Why don’t you take the afternoon off?”
The maids’ faces lit up.
“Do you mean it, sir?” Abigail looked at him with pure adoration.
“I do. It’s been a difficult day for everyone. You may go and get some rest now.”
The maids sprang out of their seats, curtsied quickly to Nate, and without giving Bridget so much as a glance, shot out of the room.
Bridget turned to Nate, her chest flaming. What was he trying to hide? What was it that he didn’t want her to know about these housemaids or himself for that matter?
*
For the first time since Nate had agreed to revamp Villa De Lacey, Bridget felt disempowered in her own home.
His word was the law, not hers. Villa De Lacey belonged to him, not her.
And Abigail and Sarah were his servants, not hers.
She’d felt that keenly today and suddenly understood how Aunt Marianne must have been feeling of late.