Chapter Eighteen
While the guests celebrated outside with champagne, the servants and Bijou were permitted to celebrate downstairs with tea and cake.
With everyone occupied, Bridget took the opportunity to sneak upstairs and search the rooms. She tried Lydia’s chamber first, hoping to find Dodsworth’s “confession,” but her door was locked.
Bridget frowned. Why hadn’t she anticipated that?
She did not have time to fetch the master keys, so she walked down the hallway to Lady Eamont’s room and was relieved to find it open.
She began by looking in the most obvious places—the jewelry box, the drawers, and under the mattress.
Not wanting to make a mess but also needing to be quick, Bridget paused, looking around the room and trying to decipher where Lady Eamont could have hidden the brooch.
But the room was too clean and neatly organized.
She couldn’t hope to find it without rummaging through all of Lady Eamont’s perfectly wrapped dresses, shoes, hats, bonnets, and gloves.
Feeling deflated, Bridget sank onto a red-velvet-upholstered chair and scanned the room, thinking. She’d searched every inch of Madam Bouffant’s room, and the brooch had not been there. She was certain Lady Eamont had it in her possession.
“What are you doing in here?”
Bridget jerked her head up, startled that she was not alone. Adelia stood in the doorway, her eyes red rimmed and her cheeks tear stained. Yet she didn’t look sad. She looked furious.
Bridget swallowed. Her mind worked to come up with an excuse for being in the viscountess’s room. “I—it’s Bijou, my dog. I was looking for him. He sometimes likes to hide in this room,” she lied.
“Why? What’s so special about this room?” Adelia stepped inside and glanced around.
“Nothing. I mean, I don’t know. It’s always been one of Bijou’s favorite places in the house.”
Adelia narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying. You left your mutt downstairs with that mad housekeeper. The one who stalks around in all black and speaks barely above a whisper, like some sort of demented specter.”
“Her name is Eliza. She’s my lady’s maid,” Bridget said, irritated. “And she wears black because she’s in mourning for her master.” She stood up, eager to escape Adelia’s company. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to continue my search.” Bridget made for the door.
“Do you think me ugly, Miss De Lacey?”
Bridget stopped, startled by the turn in conversation. “I—no, of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Mama says my eyes are too small. She calls them elephant eyes.”
“Pardon?” Bridget said. “Did you say ‘elephant eyes’?”
“Yes, haven’t you ever seen an elephant?”
“Only in paintings.”
“Well, I have seen one up close. There’s one in a cage at the Tower of London. It’s part of the royal menagerie. The poor thing was far too big to be stuck in a cage. I was shocked by its size. But for such a large animal, they have very small eyes.”
“I didn’t know that,” Bridget said.
“You really should get to London to see them if you can. But I suppose now that you’re a pauper it will be out of the question.”
Bridget pressed her lips together, stemming her retort. Papa had told her about the king’s menagerie, and she hadn’t liked the sound of it at all. In her opinion, animals did not belong in cages. The thought of all those people gawking at the poor beasts made her sad.
“‘Elephant eyes and a hawk’s nose,’ that’s what Mama always says.”
“There is nothing wrong with your features,” Bridget said, trying to soothe Adelia who was becoming increasingly agitated. “I am certain you will make a fine match one day.”
Adelia turned back to the mirror and addressed her reflection. “I was supposed to marry Mr. Squires, but I see the way he looks at you.” She lifted her eyes to meet Bridget’s in the mirror, sending a chill down Bridget’s spine.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Bridget said.
“Of course, you do. But it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Lydia has secured herself a husband, and Mama will only let one of us marry. It was supposed to be me. I’m the eldest. She promised.”
“What do you mean she will only let one of you marry?”
“If she kept us both for herself, it would look very poorly for her. She’d have failed in society’s eyes if she raised two spinsters.
But if one makes a good match and the other becomes sickly—too sickly to marry—then no one will criticize her.
Pity her, yes, but not criticize. She likes to be in control, you see.
And who will she control once her daughters are married? Not Papa. He is out of her reach.”
Bridget walked slowly back to her chair and sat down. “Adelia,” she said gently, “what do you mean by that?”
Adelia turned abruptly and narrowed her eyes at Bridget. “It’s Miss Eamont to you.”
“Yes, indeed.” Bridget stood. She’d had enough of Adelia’s games. “Well, as I said, it’s time for me to go and find my dog.”
“There’s no need for that.” Adelia strode toward Bridget. “I think I know what you’re really looking for.” She swooped down and reached into the back crevice of the chair Bridget had been sitting on. Then, to Bridget’s surprise, she pulled out a red-silk pouch.
“What is that?” Bridget eyed the pouch that Adelia dangled before her.
“Look inside and see,” Adelia said.
Bridget reached for the pouch and half expected Adelia to pull it back, but she allowed Bridget to snatch hold of it take and it from her.
Even before she opened it, Bridget knew what was inside.
She could feel the floral shape and weight of the brooch.
She pulled open the strings and peeked inside. Sure enough, she’d been correct.
“How did you know it was there?”
“Because as soon as I saw that wretched woman lying at the foot of the stairs, I knew my mother wouldn’t let her take that brooch to her grave. So, I asked her about it, and she told me she took it from the whore’s room after her accident.”
I knew as much!
“Mama said that she had every right to take it. The brooch belongs to her. It’s part of a set, and Madam Bouffant had stolen it from her.
” Adelia snarled rather than spoke her words, and Bridget wondered at whom she was expressing her anger.
Was it her mother, her father, or his mistress? Whom did she hate the most?
“So, your mother said she went to Madam Bouffant’s room after she fell down the stairs and found the brooch,” Bridget reiterated, wanting to be clear about what Adelia was saying.
“That’s what she said, but who knows. She may have taken it before.”
“Before what?”
Adelia shrugged.
“Adelia,” Bridget spoke as gently as she could, “do you think your mama could have—well—pushed Madam Bouffant down the stairs in a fit of anger?” She braced herself for an outburst of scorn and anger from Adelia, but to her surprise, the young woman threw back her head and laughed.
“Do I think she did it? I don’t know. Do I think she’s capable of doing it? Yes.”
“Adelia.” As if she were trying to calm an agitated cat, Bridget wanted to proceed carefully. “Why do you think your mama is capable of murder?”
“Murder? Did I say murder?” She tossed her head. “I didn’t.”
“But, you said you think her capable of pushing Madam Bouffant down the stairs.”
The young woman shrugged. “She’s capable of great cruelty.”
But what did that mean? “In what way?”
“In the way of feeding her children minute amounts of poison that would make them appear sickly or making them trip and fall in a way that twists an ankle.”
“Or by pushing them down a flight of stairs?”
“Oh, yes. That is one of her favorite ways.”
“You’re saying…” Bridget took a deep breath before proceeding, afraid she already knew the answer but still needing to confirm the truth. “Did she do that to you or Lydia?”
“Countless times.”
“But why?” It was inconceivable.
“Control. She enjoys having complete control over us. She can be evil sometimes—nay, she is evil.”
Bridget curled her fist around the small silk sack and felt the weight of the brooch in her hand.
Was Adelia telling the truth? Or was she covering up her own crime by pointing a finger at her mama?
There was no way to know for sure, Bridget thought as she glanced at the mirror.
Adelia stared straight ahead, and then, her brown eyes met Bridget’s in the glass—and she saw only malice in them.
*
As Nate stepped into the villa, he saw Bridget descending the stairs. She had a perturbed look, and Nate could see she was deep in thought.
“You disappeared for a good while,” he said, meeting her at the foot of the stairs.
“Oh.” She looked up as if startled to see him. “Yes, I”—she glanced around—“I’d rather not talk about it in here. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
Although she was referring to the guests, Nate felt the sting of her comment.
He’d sensed her hesitancy to trust him of late, and he decided it was time to find out why.
“What do you say we go out on horseback? It’s a fine day, and too many guests are out in the garden and by the lake for us to have a private talk down there. ”
Much to his relief, Bridget nodded her agreement and twenty minutes later, they were cantering up to Orrest Head, the fresh wind blowing in their faces, and the magnificent view of the crystal lake, the mountains, and the green fells enveloping them from all sides.
Both sat on their horses and gazed down at the lake. The view from this height was even more breathtaking than from Villa De Lacey. “It’s truly remarkable here,” Nate said.
“It was one of Papa’s favorite places. We’d ride up here together at least once a week.”
They fell silent, enjoying the view, while their horses munched on the lush grass. Finally, Nate said, “So what do you make of Dodsworth’s betrothal to Lydia? Were you as shocked as everyone else?”