Ravenworthe

by Ginny Hartman

  It wasn't hard to find the room she was locked in, for just as Mr. Townsend had said, her loud wailing could be heard from quite a ways away. Hot tears formed in her eyes as Bridget grasped the doorknob and began jiggling it frantically, hoping by some miracle it would magically open.

  “Where's the key?” she yelled, hoping someone would see her plight and have mercy on her.

  “I told you this wasn't wise,” Uncle Jasper reprimanded, coming up behind her, his chest heaving violently as a result of the chase.

  Scooping her from the door, he mumbled, “Perhaps we should lock you up too, you little hoyden.”

  Mr. Townsend clicked his tongue as he shook his head reprovingly. Reaching for Bridget, he took her from Uncle Jasper and said, “She's in shock, Jasper. Being cruel to her will only cause her more distress. Go find yourself something to eat before you forget your manners completely. I'll keep an eye on your niece until then.”

  A new sense of astonishment settled on Bridget as she watched Uncle Jasper nod his head and retreat, so quick to do as Mr. Townsend suggested. “You're both insane,” she accused, trying in vain to ignore Beatrice's horrible cries.

  Mr. Townsend smiled wanly at her. “It's been a trying day for you. I'm sure you're overwhelmed. Let's return to the drawing-room, and I'll send for tea.”

  “I don't want tea; I want my sister,” she hissed, trying to break free from his grasp, but not succeeding. Her recent physical activity left her weak and trembling, and Beatrice's howling made her feel hysterical herself.

  “I know you do, dear. Perhaps once the detective has spoken to all of us, we can make arrangements that will please you. Come, let us return so we don't keep him waiting.”

  Bridget was torn. She wanted nothing more than to fight and claw her way to Beatrice, but she had faith that cooperating with the investigation would yield favorable results. For the first time, she looked deeply into Mr. Townsend's eyes, wondering if she could trust him.

  He had brown eyes like Colin, but they were muted and dull, nothing quite as fantastic or captivating as the detective's gold-flecked ones, but there was gentleness there, and Bridget decided to trust him, at least for now.

  Sinking into his side, she allowed him to escort her back upstairs, where a thoughtful servant had already brought a tea cart, anticipating their needs with consideration. Mr. Townsend helped her to the settee then poured her a steaming cup of tea.

  “Do you take sugar or cream with it?” he asked politely, the mundane question making the whole experience seem even more surreal.

  “Just cream,” she replied.

  With shaky hands, she took the offered tea and slowly sipped a scorching mouthful, relishing in the way the hot liquid burned her mouth, causing pain in a region other than her heart.

  So lost in her own sorrow was she, Bridget failed to notice her mother return to the room until she heard her say with smug confidence, “I will give you some credit, Bridget. That detective you hired is at least smart. He is certain I wasn't involved in your father's murder.”

  Looking over her teacup, she asked curiously, “He said that?”

  “Not precisely, but I could tell he was thinking it. Now, run along to the study and get your interview out of the way.” In her impatience, her mother came and removed the teacup from her hand. “As soon as he sees we're all innocent, he'll leave us to mourn in peace.”

  Mourn in peace? With a murderer on the loose? With Beatrice caged like an animal in the servant's quarters? Bridget's mind yelled out the questions as she made her way down the hall to her father's study. Pushing the door, she slowly walked in, fresh pain washing over her at the realization that she'd never see him sitting behind his large, mahogany desk again.

  Standing, with his hip propped against the desk, was Colin. She breathed a grateful sigh that he wasn't sitting in her father's chair. She wasn't sure she could've handled the sight. He waited for her to come closer before offering her his assistance into the wing-backed chair before him.

  His hand was warm, his touch brief. He sighed loudly while running one hand through his chestnut hair, musing it adorably while she adjusted her skirt around her legs. “You live in a house full of miserable people.”

  His comment caused her to inhale sharply, her eyes widening at his honest observation. “You've no idea,” she breathed, oddly relieved that someone besides her could see the truth.

  “I'm beginning to have some sense of what you put up with, and I feel the need to apologize, though I know it's of no fault of my own. Perhaps I must give them some credit, seeing as how this is a unique and trying situation everyone is dealing with,” Colin paused for a moment to think before continuing, “but my instincts tell me your Uncle and mother are difficult even in the best of times.”

  A giggle erupted from Bridget's throat. Shocked that she could laugh on the worst day of her life, she quickly hid her face behind her hands. It felt so validating to hear someone else voice her feelings that she'd felt an overwhelming sense of relief and had quickly forgotten herself.

  When she finally removed her hands and returned her gaze to Colin, she found a soft smile on his lips. His face was completely devoid of the disapproval she'd expected to find. “I'm sorry for being so...”

  When words failed her, he interjected, “Relieved that someone else feels the way that you do?”

  “Yes, that,” she quickly agreed, then changed the subject by asking, “Did you find anything out that could help your investigation?”

  “I've discovered some things that give me pause, things I will need to consider and look into further, though I am by no means close to solving the case. Your mother shared with me that Mrs. Heflekemper had recently begun to show your father a great amount of disregard. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Our housekeeper?” Bridget asked with surprise. “My mother really tried to point fingers at the housekeeper? I mean, I suppose there has been some tension between the two as of recent, though I highly doubt a spat over the quality of produce being purchased would warrant enough hate to result in murder.”

  “Perhaps there's more the story than you're aware?” Colin asked, kindly. “It would not be the first time a disgruntled employee has done something...violent.”

  “I suppose not,” Bridget conceded, still thinking about Mrs. Heflekemper. The rotund lady was outspoken and boisterous and often tried to get away with running the house on her own terms instead of her father's, but she was so efficient at what she did, he often let her insubordination slide. Unless it affected his food, then her father drew the line.

  “I will speak to her and see what I discover. Is there anyone else you think I should be interested in? Particularly anyone else in the house who may not have been on the best of terms with your father?”

  Bridget shook her head. “As far as I'm aware, the staff all revered Father and appreciated his generosity with their wages.”

  “Very well. One other thing, the dagger Beatrice was holding, do you know who that belonged to?”

  Bridget scrunched her brows together, trying to recall the weapon with any sort of clarity. Her shoulders sunk as she admitted, “This morning is such a blur, I must confess I don't recall with any clearness what it even looked like.”

  “Pardon me for a moment; I will go retrieve it so you can get a better look.”

  Bridget waited for Colin to return, her insides churning, and her back stiff. She wasn't certain she could stomach seeing the murder weapon again, her father's blood covering the blade.

  When Colin returned, he sat in the chair next to her, holding the dagger draped in a white handkerchief. He bent in close as he slowly unwrapped the weapon. Bridget noticed he had nice hands, with long fingers and short, trimmed nails. Perhaps she was only trying to distract herself, but it worked as she focused on the veins bulging beneath his skin instead of the dagger.

  “Do you recognize it?” His warm breath swirled against her skin, causing her eyes to glance from his hands to his mouth. Bridge
t's cheeks went warm as she focused on his supple lips, still avoiding looking at the weapon that had killed her father.

  “I'm not sure,” she muttered.

  “Perhaps it'll help if you look at it,” he gently encouraged, causing her cheeks to blaze even hotter when she realized he was aware that her gaze was trained steadily on his mouth.

  She dropped her gaze faster than a hot potato, wishing she had a fan to cool herself with. For the first time, she really looked at the weapon that had been used to kill her father, and when she did so, she gasped. “It's my father's dagger!”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, he carried it in his boot whenever he went to the docks to meet a merchant ship. Said he felt safer knowing he had a way to defend himself if needed. I can't believe I didn't' recognize it before.”

  “You were in shock, probably still are.” Colin wrapped the knife up once more. “Have you eaten anything?”

  “No,” she hissed, shaking her head in repulsion. “I cannot stomach the thought of food when my father lay dead upstairs, and my sister locked below.”

  “You need to eat, so you don't grow faint,” he advised, concern lacing his voice.

  Bridget ignored his urging and found the courage to look once more into eyes that saw into her soul. “I can't handle what they've done to Beatrice.” Her voice broke on her sister's name, her lip trembling embarrassingly. “It's not fair they keep her locked up while the rest of us roam free. She's frightened and doesn't understand.”

  Besides a simple nod of his head, Colin said nothing.

  “Can't you do something?” Bridget wailed, wondering why no one would help her, why no one cared to help Beatrice.

  Another long pause ensued before Colin gently cupped her face with his hands. The gesture, though intimate, felt oddly soothing, and Bridget found herself leaning into his warmth. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his eyes intently piercing her own.

  She swallowed hard, feeling her neck ripple beneath his hands. “I don't know who to trust,” she admitted, feeling vulnerable and scared.

  “You can trust me,” he assured her.

  She took a moment to ponder before realizing it was true. If she hadn't trusted him already, she would never have sought his help in the first place. “Yes,” she breathed, “I do.”

  His eyes lit up with pleasure. “I will take care of Beatrice, but I need you to take care of yourself. Try to eat something, and then I want you to sleep. You're exhausted, Bridget,” he said, the concern in his voice making her emotional. “You need to rest so you don't fall ill.”

  “I see the wisdom in your advice and will try and do as you say.”

  “Go straight to your bedchamber once leaving here. I'll send a maid up with some food.”

  She nodded before asking, “And what of Mother and Uncle Jasper and Mr. Townsend? Will you take care of them as well?”

  She regretted her question when he dropped his hands from her face. His gentle touch had been comforting. “Who is Mr. Townsend?” he asked with more than a little curiosity.

  “I forgot all about him, seeing as how he's practically a stranger. He's nice enough, I suppose, but I feel awful that he's gotten caught up in all of this, though he does mean to be helpful, I'm sure.”

  Bridget realized she was rattling when he stopped her. “Who is Mr. Townsend?” he asked, more firmly, though definitely not rudely.

  “He's a business acquaintance of Father's.”

  “Do you think he could've killed your father?”

  “I have considered the thought,” she admitted. “I don't know if it's likely, but I suppose it could be possible. You should question him.”

  “I intend to, now that I know of his presence. Now go to your bedchamber, Bridget, I will take care of Beatrice, I assure you.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered before slipping from the room, hoping and praying her trust wasn't misplaced.

  After sipping some bone broth and nibbling part of a roll, Bridget climbed into her bed, still fully clothed, and stared up at the canopy above. Her body ached with exhaustion, but she feared she wouldn't be able to sleep because every time she closed her eyes, her mind conjured images of Beatrice standing over her father's bloodied body, and her stomach would jolt with the horror of it all.

  That's why it felt like a gift from God when nearly a quarter of an hour later, Bridget succumbed to the deep exhaustion and fell into a fitful slumber.

  Though he kept things private on his end, Colin wasn't the least bit surprised when two days after the death of Elias Godwin, The Times printed an article all about it titled, “Murder on Mayfair.” He read the article with caution, noting they didn't always get the facts straight, but oddly enough, this time, it seemed as if they had. He wondered who their source of information was.

  He cringed as he read the printed words, biased towards Beatrice as the murderer. His immediate desire was to inform Bridget that he hadn't leaked the news to the paper, but the thought only frustrated him.

  Balling his hand into a fist, he slammed it against the table, causing his teacup to rattle in its saucer from the force. He hadn't been allowed back inside the Godwin residence since he left. The butler had turned him away rudely each time he'd returned, refusing to allow him to speak to Bridget or anyone else for that matter.

  He'd even sent missives but had yet to hear a word in response. He feared that something was terribly wrong and was determined to figure out what, but as it turned out, he had more immediate problems to worry about, and that would have to wait.

  “Mr. Ravenworthe, where are you?” the shrill of his housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, trilled in his ears, causing him to cringe as she approached the breakfast room where he'd just finished eating.

  Setting the paper aside, he watched the doorway until the slender, stern-looking woman made an appearance, her normally pinched face looking more sour than normal. With her mobcap askew, she came toward him, and his immediate response was to rise from the table and take a step away from her fiery eyes.

  “What is it now?” he asked, hoping he sounded concerned instead of exasperated.

  The large set of keys hanging from her waist rattled against her hip as Mrs. Smith gave her impassioned speech. “I cannot be expected to keep your household running smoothly, all the while chasing after that mournful child any longer. Either find a new housekeeper or find a nursemaid, for I refuse to act as both!”

  The mournful child to which she was referring was none other than Beatrice Godwin. In his desire to keep his promise to Bridget, he had arranged to bring the girl to his own home to stay until his investigation was complete. He'd had to put up quite the fight to get permission, but he argued it wasn't feasible for her to stay locked in the servant's quarters for the entire duration of his investigation.

  With trepidation, Mrs. Godwin had finally concluded that he was right, though it did help that Walter and Nash urged her to accept his offer as well, and she seemed to credit their position as Bow Street Runners with more favor than she did his of detective.

  It wasn't until he got Beatrice home that he realized he might have been overly ambitious in his desire to help Bridget, for he had no clue what to do with the child while he continued to work the case. So, in his desperation, he had pawned her off on Mrs. Smith, hoping she would know what to do with her. It appeared that perhaps he'd made a mistake.

  With fire still dancing in her eyes, she stomped her foot and said, “Well, Mr. Ravenworthe? What will it be?”

  Without hesitation, he knew what he needed to say. “I need you to remain on as housekeeper. I'll find someone else to care for the girl.”

  “Very well,” she said with a huff, though he could tell by her less frigid expression that she was pleased with his choice. “I currently have her locked in the guest bedchamber. Let me get you the key so you can do with her what you will.”

  It took Mrs. Smith several moments to find the key she was looking for and remove it from the large key ring at her waist. When she handed it to
him, Colin thanked her and waited for her to leave before muttering, “What have I gotten myself into now?”

  His breast twisted with guilt when he approached the sole guest bedchamber in his townhouse and could hear Beatrice's soft cries behind the locked door. Sliding the brass key into the lock, he twisted it and slowly opened the door.

  Laying in a heap on the bed was Beatrice. Her soft cries prevented her from hearing him enter. He padded to the bed and listened as she muttered between cries, “Stop locking me up, stop locking me up.”

  The twinges of guilt multiplied as he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Beatrice jumped, her frightened eyes looking up at him nervously. “I'm so sorry you were locked up again. You don't like that, do you?”

  Her crying stopped as she stared at him, unsure if she could trust him. Colin waited patiently, not wanting to do anything that would frighten her more.

  From the moment he'd first met her, upon releasing her from her prison below stairs, she had seemed wary of him, and rightfully so. It had taken him the entire carriage ride home to convince her that he meant her no harm, and he still wondered if she truly believed him when he explained he meant only to help her.

  “No,” Beatrice finally squeaked, a belated answer to his question. “I don't like Mrs. Smith either. She don't let me take bites of the apple tart before it's cooked,” she said, clearly disgusted.

  Colin chuckled. Not only was Mrs. Smith his housekeeper, but she was also his cook as well, and a mighty fine one at that. “I imagine she didn't take too kindly to you trying to snitch a taste of her tart. You will just have to wait to sample the delicacy until after dinner.”

  Beatrice's eyes lit up. Clearly, she was excited about the prospect. “And then you will take me home to Bridget?” she asked hopefully.

  Colin shook his head. “I can't do that, at least not yet, but I promise I will as soon as I can.”

  Beatrice stuck her lip out in a pout. Though she was at least a head taller than Bridget and much curvier, her mannerisms were so child-like it was easy to forget she was the elder of the two.