Chapter Twenty-Nine
It wasn’t difficult to find her papa’s box in Eliza’s room.
She’d hidden it in the most obvious place—under her bed.
Bridget recovered the box and opened it to find the lock of hair still secured inside.
She stroked the golden lock and smiled. Nate had been wrong.
The thief and the killer weren’t the same.
Eliza had no malice in her. All she’d wanted was to have Papa close to her. She’d acted out of love.
Bridget lifted the false bottom inside the box and checked to see if her mother’s letters were still safely tucked within.
Her eyes burned with tears of joy and sadness when she saw the letters folded in place and tied together with a faded red ribbon.
It had been difficult for her to bury these precious remnants of her parents in the ground, but it was the only way to keep them together in death and give her papa the burial he deserved.
Bridget closed the box and sighed. She knew that she’d need to have a difficult discussion with Eliza, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
She didn’t have the energy to do it right away.
It had been a trying day, and Bijou was in need of a bath.
She’d put the box in her room and decide how to broach this sensitive topic with Eliza tomorrow.
Just then, she heard her aunt shout. Bridget hurried out into the hall.
*
“Good heavens!” Aunt Marianne threw her hands in the air. “What are we to do without a proper set of servants?”
Nate and her aunt stood in front of Sarah’s chamber door, which she had seemingly barred shut. Despite their knocking and pleading for her to come out, they’d received no reply from the housemaid.
“I’m going to have to break down the door,” Nate said. He peered at Bridget. “She won’t come out,” he explained.
“Is that really necessary?” Aunt Marianne bristled.
“I’m afraid so. After what happened to Abigail, I don’t think we can take any chances.”
“Oh, I pray that she is unharmed,” Bridget said as Nate stepped back, inhaled, and readied his body to meet the force of the door.
He lunged forward and slammed into the door with all his weight.
The door shuddered, and a scream sounded from within.
At least they knew Sarah was alive. Nate lunged for the door again, and this time it flew open, the chair wedged under the doorknob toppling over from the force.
They entered to see Sarah crouched in the corner of her bed, clutching her covers and trembling with fear.
*
Thirty minutes later, once Bridget had managed to calm the housemaid down, Nate sat across from the two women in the study. Sarah clutched her cup of tea in both hands like a child, and looked at them with terror-filled eyes.
“Now, Sarah. Why don’t you tell us what has frightened you so?” Bridget asked in a quiet voice.
“It’s her. Abigail.”
Nate leaned forward on his desk. “Abigail? Did she say something to you before she died?”
Sarah shook her head. “Not before. Last night. She visited me in the middle of the night. I awoke and saw her standing over my bed. She were dressed in her black cape an’ holding a candle, her face all white and ghastly looking.”
Nate frowned. “It sounds like you were having a nightmare, Sarah.”
“It weren’t a dream!” Sarah insisted. “She were real! She were so close to me that I could touch her coat. She were real—come back from the dead.”
“Did she say anything to you?” Bridget asked.
“She told me to get out of this house. To go home to my family or end up dead like her. She said she were cold in that water all night. Cold and lonely.” Sarah squeezed her teacup. “I don’t want to be drowned and spend eternity in freezing water.”
Bridget glanced at Nate, who shook his head. “Sarah, either you were having a dream, or someone was playing a trick on you.”
“This weren’t no trick.” A tear slid down Sarah’s cheek. “I’ll not spend another night in that room. I want to go home to my family.”
Bridget worried her lower lip. Nate was right. If Sarah hadn’t been dreaming then someone wanted to frighten her into leaving Villa De Lacey, and Bridget was certain she knew the identity of the culprit.
*
Bridget sat on her bed, trying to muster the courage to do what she knew she must, although the terrible twist and churning in her stomach grew worse by the second.
She’d excused herself from Nate’s company soon after the interview with Sarah, not wanting to discuss her thoughts.
They were too frightening—too terrible to comprehend.
She was quite certain that Eliza had been the one who had frightened Sarah.
Eliza disliked the young maid and had easy access to her room, which was next to her own.
The question that now tormented Bridget was why?
Was Eliza trying to save Sarah’s life by terrifying her into leaving, or was she the killer?
Another gut-wrenching attack of nausea assailed Bridget. How could such a thought enter her mind? Eliza had been the most loyal and faithful servant at Villa De Lacey.
Yet, it was possible—no, probable—that she’d ransacked Papa’s makeshift grave, stealing the last piece of him that Bridget had left. At the same time, she’d acted out of love—Bridget was certain of that. Grief made people do strange things.
Now, she picked up her wooden box and cradled it.
How she wished she had her parents by her side to give her the advice and comfort she so desperately craved.
Opening the box, she removed her papa’s lock of hair and lifted the false bottom where her mother’s letters to her father lay.
She’d read them countless times and always took great comfort in seeing her mama’s neat script.
Sometimes, she’d trace the script with her fingers and feel her mother’s soul seep inside her.
Her mama had poured her thoughts and love into those words, and Bridget needed some of that now.
Oh, mama. How I wish we’d had more time together. She fingered the letters and then frowned. The paper felt different—stiffer and thicker than the delicate, worn paper her mama had used to write to her papa.
Why? How? She extracted the bundle and carefully untied the red ribbon that secured the letters. When she unfolded one of the letters, her heart dropped.
These were not her mama’s letters.
Instead, those had been replaced by ones written in a crude scrawl. Hardly able to believe her eyes, Bridget read:
My Dearest Master,
Another wun is dead an’ gon. I did it all for you my luv, an’ I shall keep doin’ it until all the filth an’ sin is washed away.
Yur faithful servant,
Miss Elizabeth Moon (Eliza)
Bridget dropped the letter and covered her mouth with her hand, which trembled violently. Her suspicions about Eliza were true—but they couldn’t be. She hadn’t truly believed her maid guilty of murder. Not Eliza! Anyone but her faithful lady’s maid!
Just then, the door to Bridget’s chamber creaked open and Eliza stepped inside. “You sent for me, miss.”
Bridget looked at her lady’s maid, her body shaking, and her eyes brimming with tears.
“I see you found the box,” Eliza said as though she were talking about a lost slipper. “And you read my letters to your papa.” The maid closed the door and walked to where Bridget sat on her bed. She stooped to pick up the letters. “You shouldn’t have done that. Those were private.”
Bridget nodded because she could not speak.
“Then you understand why I had to do it? Why I had to get rid of those women? They were bad women—disgraceful. They brought shame on your papa’s house.
” Eliza’s dark eyes seemed larger and blacker than usual as she fixed her gaze on Bridget, but they were devoid of emotion.
How had she not noticed their coldness before?
Now she noticed how her face and thin lips were tight and how her brown fringe peeked out from under her bonnet along with a few stringy hairs.
She was exceedingly pale—even more so than usual—and looked rather ghoulish in her black mourning dress.
“You mustn’t blame yourself.” Eliza secured the letters with the red ribbon and slipped them into her pocket.
“It’s your mama’s bad blood that makes you act so impulsively.
But I will protect you as I always have. ”
“What do mean?” Bridget asked, her heart pounding and her body trembling. “What have you done with Mama’s letters?”
“They’re gone, just like her. It’s my job.”
“What is?” Bridget asked, confused. Gone?
“To keep the evil out. To keep the house pure and respectable for my master.”
Bridget’s breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to speak. “Is that why you killed Madam Bouffant and Abigail?”
“They deserved to die. They were sinners—adulterers under the master’s roof. You lost your way inviting them here. You brought evil into this house, but it’s not your fault. Your mama, she were low born. Half your blood is tainted.”
Bridget brushed the insult away. She didn’t know why Eliza would malign her mama, but there was a more urgent matter at hand.
She wanted—needed to hear a confession from Eliza’s own lips.
“Did you push Madam Bouffant down the stairs?” she asked, praying inside that Eliza’s answer would be no. “Tell me.”
“She had no respect, creeping out late at night with Lord Frederick and then parting ways with him upstairs only to enter Lord Eamont’s chamber. A married man, he is. Sinner, she was. I watched her, saw it all.”
“So, you waited for her to come out of Lord Eamont’s room?”
“Those silly housemaids were late to prepare the breakfast room as always, so I went in their stead. That’s when I saw her, wearing the very same dress she’d worn the night before.
I watched her start down the stairs. She were unsteady on her legs from the long night.
She were going to fall. I could see as much.
But I couldn’t wait for her to do it on her own, so I gave her a little push, and down she tumbled.
She screamed, but the wind was howling something fierce, so no one heard her cries. ”
I did, Bridget thought.
“I went to the breakfast room to do me duties and then I waited for those silly maids to find her.”
“So that’s why you were already upstairs when Abigail found Madam Bouffant’s body,” Bridget said, more to herself than Eliza. “I remember you came down the stairs and handed me a sheet to cover her body. I was so distraught I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
Bridget could barely breathe. Her own Eliza, a killer! She wanted to shut her ears and pretend she had not heard the confession, but she knew she had to press Eliza for more, or she might never know the truth.
“And Abigail? You switched the bag of mushrooms Mr. Harley had given her, didn’t you? Then you followed her and pushed her into the fountain.”
“Not pushed. There were no need for that. The poison made her sick. She tried to drink from the fountain, but I pushed her head under the water. She beat her fists and kicked something fierce, but she were too weak. When she stopped, I put her in the fountain.”
Bridget’s pulse raced. She eyed the chamber door.
Would Eliza let her go? Or would she try to harm her too?
She grabbed her father’s lock of hair, threw it into the wooden box and closed the lid.
Then, tucking her treasure safely under her arm, she forced herself to stand.
“You’ll need to wait here for a bit, understand?
” She clutched the box and backed away from Eliza.
“The magistrate will want to speak with you. But you’re not to worry.
He’ll understand,” Bridget lied as she slid toward the door.
Eliza made no move toward her. She simply stood, a small but frightening figure in black mourning attire, following Bridget with her dark gaze.
“I were a good servant to my master. He’d lost his way. He couldn’t see your mama for what she truly was. I did what was needed to protect him and you.”
Bridget’s heart contracted with fear. She froze. “What do you mean? Protect him from whom?”
“She were with child when the master brought her home. With child before they’d wed. That child were lost. The Lord knew it were a sin and would not let it enter this world.”
“Are you talking about Mama?” Bridget’s voice came out in a whisper.
Eliza walked toward Bridget, who backed herself into the wall. Eliza stopped in front of her, reached out, and stroked Bridget’s hair. “You were different. And so like your papa from the very first. That’s why I always took care to protect you.”
“I don’t understand. What are you saying? You took care of Mama during her illness, didn’t you? You nursed her—”
“It were you and my master I cared for—protected. I saved him and you from her by feeding her the poison that made her ill.”
Bridget’s breathing shallowed and her head began to spin. “You poisoned Mama?”
With that, her calm and her reason fled; she turned and lunged for the exit, dropping the box in her bid to escape. It crashed to the floor just as the door flew open. Bridget swallowed her scream and fell into her aunt’s arms.
“What is going on here?” Aunt Marianne stumbled back from the force of Bridget’s embrace.
“She killed them—all of them. Including Mama.” Bridget looked into her aunt’s alarmed face. “Eliza killed Mama.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Calm yourself. What is this all about?” Aunt Marianne looked from Bridget to Eliza.
“Check her pocket. The letters. They explain everything. We must send for the magistrate.”
“There’ll be no need for that.” Eliza walked to Bridget’s bed and sank onto her mattress. “I’m not long for this world.”
Bridget’s heart drummed wildly in her chest as the meaning of the maid’s words—and her strangely tight face and ashen appearance—occurred to her. “What did you do?”
Eliza put a hand on her stomach. “Self-murder,” she said.
“Just like my master.” Her eyelids fluttered as though she struggled to keep them open.
“Bury me at the crossroads beside him, so our restless souls can be together for all eternity.” Her thin, pale lips stretched into a ghostly smile.
Then she clutched her abdomen with both hands before she fell to the floor.
“What is happening?” Aunt Marianne screeched.
“She’s eaten poison.” Bridget ran to Eliza, reaching to feel for a pulse. “Call the magistrate and the doctor. Hurry!” she cried out, even though she knew it was too late. Her lady’s maid was dead.