Ravenworthe

by Ginny Hartman

  She instantly gasped when she'd realized what she'd said, covering her mouth with her hands.

  Feeling the sticky blood smudge against her face, Bridget gasped once more. Her hands fell instantly from her face as she began retching, though there was nothing in her stomach to cast up.

  How could this be happening? How could her boring life have come to this? How could everyone so readily think Beatrice capable of murder?

  Her mind swirled with so many questions, so many unsettling thoughts, still unable to fully take in the fact that her father was dead. She purposely avoided looking at his lifeless body, wishing someone would draw the curtains around his bed and shut the awful reality from view.

  Uncle Jasper continued instructing everyone, taking charge like it was his authority to do so. “Help your mistress to a chair,” he ordered the chambermaid that had just returned with the smelling salts. The poor girl, shaking with fright, simply nodded and shuffled towards Margaret to do as she was told.

  “You have a seat as well,” he told Bridget. “I will take care of Beatrice while I inform the authorities what has happened. I assume they'll want to question you both, so stay put.”

  “I want Bridget,” Beatrice wailed as Uncle Jasper forced her from the room. “Let me stay with Bridget.”

  Bridget's heart split in two as she watched Beatrice attempt to twist from his embrace, only to have his large hands clasp down on her even tighter. Unwillingly, her eyes drifted to her father, and she gasped painfully, emotion clogging her throat and streaming from her eyes. Beatrice couldn't have done this to him, she told herself, unable to picture her docile sister doing anything so violent.

  But then why did she have the dagger? an opposing voice in her mind questioned, causing her to still. She couldn't answer that question, so she chose to disregard it, instead focusing on the improbability of her sister being a murderer.

  Though she was older, Beatrice always fit the role of little sister thanks to her simple mind. Bridget had developed a fierce protectiveness for her early on when she'd became painfully aware of how others felt about Beatrice.

  One Sunday morning, after attending church services, when she was only seven and Beatrice just ten, their mother had told them to wait for her while she discussed an essential matter of business with the vicar. It had been the first nice day of spring, so Bridget decided it would be a good idea to start walking the path back home until mother caught up to them with her carriage.

  Bridget and Beatrice skipped merrily along the worn path, singing songs they had learned in the nursery room, laughing as they occasionally stumbled in a rut in the road.

  “You know she's different, don't you?”

  She had halted then, unaware that anyone else was on the path with them. Bridget looked up to see an older boy leaning casually against the trunk of a tree.

  “You know she's different, don't you? Or are you too stupid to tell?” he shouted again when she didn't answer the first time.

  Offended by his question, Bridget went on the defense, “She's not stupid, God just made her different because she's special.”

  The obnoxious boy threw back his head and laughed. “You must be just as dumb as her to believe that. I heard my ma talking to the vicar, and he said she acts like a baby because she's possessed of the devil.”

  Fire flashed in Bridget's eyes as she turned to the boy and spat at him, a very unladylike reaction, but one she thought very fitting at the time. Her spittle landed on his cheek, and the boy cussed at her. He bent to pick up a rock and threw it at them, barely missing Beatrice as Bridget grabbed her arm and began running down the road towards home.

  Panting and out of breath, she finally looked back to see that the boy must have given up his pursuit of them because he had somehow disappeared. Pulling to a stop, Bridget fixed her bonnet that had gone awry and hissed vehemently into the wind, “If I ever find out who that wretched boy is, I'll kill him.”

  Beatrice's eyes widened, and she began shaking her head back and forth violently. “No, Bridget, no. God says don't kill, God says don't kill,”

  She'd repeated it over and over again until Bridget finally conceded, “Fine, I won't kill him, but I will cause him harm, you can be sure of that.”

  Just then, their mother's carriage pulled up beside them. The entire drive home, they'd had to listen to Beatrice chanting over and over again, “God says don't kill, God says don't kill, God says don't kill.”

  Their mother, unaware of what had just transpired, simply thought Beatrice was finally learning something from the sermons being preached on Sunday. Bridget, on the other hand, marveled at how kind and obedient her sister could be when someone had claimed she was possessed of the devil. She knew her own heart wasn't so good, for she was seething at the injustice of it all and vowed never to trust a man of God or any boy again.

  The childhood memory quickly faded, being replaced with a firm determination that her sister didn't kill their father.

  “She didn't do it,” she yelled out openly, directed at no one in particular.

  “You'll never prove it,” her mother cried indignantly, leaving Bridget to wonder why their mother could think such a thing.

  She stared at her mother then, usually so prim and proper but now reduced to a mess. Her raven-colored hair was struggling to break free from the loose plait, looking unkempt while her robe hung limply from her shoulders, exposing bare skin beneath.

  Beatrice's loud wailing could still be heard though it grew more and more distant. Bridget's heart was breaking as she attempted to appeal for her mother's help one last time. “Please, Mother, you know Beatrice would never even harm a field mouse. You must defend her, or they'll send her to Bedlam or even worse, to Newgate.”

  Her heart felt hopeful when her mother's expression softened. Bridget went to her then and sat next to her. “Mother, you know she isn't capable of such gross violence.”

  Blue eyes that were turning grayer with age looked into hers, piercing her with the weight of sorrow they held. For the first time that morning, Bridget considered how her mother must feel losing her husband, and her heart twisted with compassion.

  In a rare display of affection, Bridget put her arms around her mother and pulled her to her chest. Her mother began crying once more, hot tears streaming from her face onto the front of Bridget's dressing gown.

  “You can't truly believe this horrific act was carried out by Beatrice, can you? Our dear, sweet Bea? Oh, Mother, Father has been taken from us, but don't allow them to take Beatrice as well.” Bridget was pleading with her mother as if her own life hung in the balance. “Please stop Uncle Jasper from taking her away.”

  Margaret choked on a sob before lifting her face to Bridget's. Gone was the usual sternness and for once, Bridget thought her mother looked like a lost child instead of the emotionally detached woman that she was. “But if she didn't kill him, who did?”

  “Maybe it was Mr. Townsend?” she asked, grasping for straws. “Where is that man anyway?”

  As if on cue, Mr. Townsend waltzed into the room, looking uncomfortable, which was understandable considering the grisly scene he'd just walked into. “I'm right here. Jasper sent me to retrieve you and take you somewhere more...suitable.”

  Bridget looked at the virtual stranger, wondering if he could be capable of murder, though his immaculate clothing and scholarly demeanor suggested otherwise. She didn't want to trust him but could see the wisdom of leaving the room where her dead father lay.

  She helped her mother to her feet and turned her over to Mr. Townsend's care. “See that she gets some tea as well.” He nodded. “I'm going to go clean myself up,” she said, then left the room ahead of them both.

  With a desperate desire to rid her hands of her father's blood, Bridget fled down the hall to her bedchamber. With an even greater sense of urgency and desperation, she vowed to free Beatrice from a murder accusation and knew just where she'd go for help.

  Colin was sitting down to break his fast, a plat
e of eggs and kippers and a steaming cup of coffee sitting before him, tempting him with their delectable smells. He placed his napkin in his lap before reaching for his fork. A bite of eggs was halfway to his mouth when his butler broke into the room.

  Finch's eyes were bright with curiosity, though his face was scrunched with a hint of annoyance. Colin knew at once he must have some unexpected news to share. One of the reasons he'd hired the man was because he was so readable, his expressions always gave everything away, and Colin liked having hired help that didn't take much work to interpret.

  “You have a visitor, sir.”

  “I surmised as much. What sort of visitor, may I ask?”

  Finch struggled to bite down a silly grin. “A woman—a young and beautiful one at that.”

  Unable to help himself, Colin scoffed in surprise. “That is unusual, indeed!”

  Both of them knew he never entertained members of the fairer sex at his private residence. If a female wanted to seek him out and employ his services, they always came to his small office above the haberdashery located in Cheapside.

  “Show her to the sitting room and tell her I'll be there momentarily.”

  Finch nodded his head and disappeared. With a longing look at his food, Colin frowned. He hated to let his eggs grow cold and go to waste, but his curiosity propelled him onward. Rising from the table, he glanced briefly into the mirror, hanging on the wall to inspect his appearance before silently chastising himself for his vanity. It was unlikely the lady was here out of any interest in him.

  His curiosity turned to complete surprise when he entered his sitting-room and saw Ms. Godwin sitting in the blue and white striped wing-backed chair next to the fireplace, looking oddly like she belonged right there in his house, in his favorite chair. His heart stilled for a moment before realization dawned on him. Her alabaster skin had no color and she looked as if she had been crying and were about to do so again.

  “Miss Godwin, are you well?” He tried to let his concern for her override the fact that his pride still hurt when he remembered she'd left the ball last night before their promised dance.

  Her sorrowful expression didn't change as she shook her head violently back and forth, causing long, raven strands of hair to fall about her shoulders. It was this motion that caused him to realize her hair had not been properly dressed. A quick perusal of her person showed that she had dressed haphazardly, as if she'd been in a hurry to get somewhere, to get here.

  “Whatever is wrong? What sort of assistance can I give you?” he asked, genuinely concerned this time.

  “I need you,” she managed to squeak out, so softly he barely heard her.

  He didn't have time to give it much thought until much, much later, but those three words caused his heart to twist with an emotion he couldn't identify, yet he suddenly craved.

  “I came all the way...from Mayfair...because I need you,” she choppily explained, this time lifting her gaze to his.

  Her blue eyes were bright with tears and pierced him to his soul, making his insides turn to mush. He wanted to melt before her and promise her he'd do anything for her, simply because she cast her eyes on him in such a desperate, pleading way. What sort of fool was he turning into? He'd never reacted this way to a woman before, but never before had such a beautiful woman been in his house, in such intimate proximity.

  He shook his head free from the ridiculous thoughts. “Of course, I'll help you if I can. What is it you need, Miss Godwin?” When she didn't readily answer, he asked with trepidation, “Have you been hurt?”

  His sincere concern seemed to unleash a dam of emotions within her, for suddenly she was speaking so fast he could hardly keep up with what she was saying. “Father's dead...murdered...Beatrice is in trouble and I...I...I need you. Please...I need you to help her.”

  Colin schooled his face not to show the surprise he felt. “Your father has been murdered?” he asked, hoping for clarification.

  She nodded vigorously. “But Bea didn't do it...she'd never do it, but...but...they think she did.”

  “I'm so sorry to hear about your father. Have the authorities been warned?”

  “Uncle Jasper is taking care of that. He's turning Beatrice in. But she didn't do it; I know she didn't do it.” Her voice was growing louder with hysteria.

  Colin reached out and put a hand on her shoulder to calm her, but regretted it at once when she suddenly pulled back as if he'd burned her. He slowly removed his hand, looking at the offending limb curiously, the disappointment he felt last night when he couldn't find her after returning to the ballroom intensifying tenfold.

  Feeling incredibly awkward and embarrassed that his attempt to comfort her had so offended her, Colin cleared his throat and forged on, “Who is Beatrice?”

  “My sister.”

  “I need you to explain to me exactly what happened so I can figure out what it is you need of me.”

  Tears began pooling in her eyes, and he once more had the compelling desire to reach out and comfort her, drawn to her in a magnetic fashion that felt at once odd yet completely right. But at the risk of her reacting so harshly once more, he resisted, reminding himself that she wasn't interested in him beyond his detective skills.

  Miss Godwin took a deep, fortifying breath before continuing in a much calmer fashion this time. “Beatrice is not like you or me, she's...special, like a child. She is older than me by three years, but she acts as if she's at least a decade younger. Can you understand my meaning?” Colin nodded, sure he understood. “She's everything good and kind, and I know in my heart she'd never kill Father. I just know she didn't do it. But Uncle Jasper is taking her away, he's taking her away from me, and I can't help but think how scared she must be, how confused she must feel.”

  “I need you to fill in some gaps for me. Why does your Uncle Jasper think she killed your father?”

  Bridget hiccupped before looking at the ground as she muttered, “She was found standing above his dead body, covered in blood and holding the dagger that killed him.”

  “Did you witness the scene yourself?” he asked, hoping and praying she hadn't. He knew how torturous the memories could be on a person.

  Her lips trembled as more tears poured from her eyes, dissolving all her hard sought after calmness, dropping into a puddle on the floor beneath her. “I did.”

  Anger welled in his heart with such an intensity he cursed aloud. A gentlewoman such as Miss Godwin should never have had to witness anything so horrendous. His protective instincts forced him to his feet to proclaim passionately, “I will discover who killed your father!”

  Miss Godwin rose to her feet, her chest rising and falling swiftly as she asked, “So you believe me? You believe Beatrice is innocent?”

  His heart fell as he took in her eager expression; her eyes probing him with such desperation. He'd be foolish to agree when he'd done no investigating at all, but he didn't want to disappoint her. Oh, what a fool he'd been to allow this woman to rattle him so. He had to close his eyes to block her from view, reminding himself that she didn't need Colin, she needed Detective Ravenworthe, and the two were utterly and entirely different.

  His shoulders stiffened as he braced himself from her charms and slowly opened his eyes. His stomach clenched with heat as he took in her perfectly sculpted face, every detail so alluring, and realized his efforts were futile. There was something about this woman that made him feel so unsettled.

  Colin realized he'd taken too long to answer her when her face fell, and she turned from him. In a desperate attempt to assure her, he placed his hand on her shoulder, feeling compelled to touch her again, and blurted, “I believe you entirely.”

  Miss Godwin twirled around, her eyes disbelieving, yet hopeful. “Do you really?”

  He swallowed, trying to ignore his attraction to her as he attempted to keep his mind clear. “Yes, I do.”

  A rare smile flitted across her face. “Then come and tell Uncle Jasper that.”

  “Oh, that it was that sim
ple. My word will not be enough,” Colin explained. “I'll need to investigate the scene as well as gather details about the circumstances and people in the house. A murder investigation is quite intense and can take weeks.”

  “Then you must get started at once. Come, my carriage is waiting to take us to our townhouse.”

  In an act that rendered him speechless, Miss Godwin grabbed him by the hand and pulled him from the house towards an elegant carriage waiting in the street. Her hand was so small, so soft inside of his own, and he couldn't stop thinking about the intimacy of the grasp, though he was certain in her current state of mind she wasn't aware of it at all.

  Much to his regret, as soon as they arrived at the carriage, she dropped his hand, but his disappointment waned as she allowed him to assist her into the equipage. He couldn't help but notice how petite she was, as his hands nearly encircled the entire span of her waist.

  It wasn't until they were well on their way that Miss Godwin resumed their conversation, pulling Colin swiftly, yet blessedly from his lovesick distraction. With his head slowly clearing, he had time to feel disgusted at himself for allowing her to make him go so mad.

  “When I left the house, Uncle Jasper had Beatrice locked away in an unused room in the servant's quarters while he went to fetch the authorities. I just pray they haven't returned and taken her away.”

  “Did you leave when he did?”

  “Just after. I didn't want him to know of my departure, for surely he would have forbidden it.”

  “Then you mustn't worry. He wouldn't have time to get all the way to Bow Street and inform the magistrate he needed assistance in the time it took you to get from Mayfair to my residence and back. We shall certainly beat him home.”

  His words caused the worried crease of her brow to lessen somewhat. “You're very intelligent,” she praised.

  “Logical is a more adept word, but I appreciate your compliment regardless,” he said with a faint smile.