Page 5

Chapter 5

Bridget hovered in the cloakroom, her nerves fluttering with apprehension. Cormac had returned to her in the wings before the interval and told her about the room, which she thought would be very suitable since the theatre’s patrons would not need to retrieve their outer garments until after the performance was over. As soon as the interval came and the drop curtain was lowered, she had sought out Frances in the other wings and relayed the location to her. Cormac had then led her to the cloakroom and left her there alone. And now she waited.

She imagined how Frances might navigate this sensitive mission. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the woman weaving through the milling crowds in the lobby, her plain clothing in blatant contrast to the glittering attire surrounding her. The gazes of the patrons might land upon her and recognise her as the speaker prior to the beginning of the play, but they would likely glance away again, either deeming her unworthy company in which to be seen or wishing to avoid holding to their earlier pledges. Frances would disregard them for now as she searched for Lucy, but Bridget knew she would pounce on them like a terrier later before they departed.

Once Frances found Lucy, how would she broach the matter of requesting her company for a private meeting? Would she reveal to Lucy exactly who wished to meet her, or would she keep Bridget’s identity anonymous in the hope that curiosity might sway Lucy to consent? There was a strong likelihood that Lucy would refuse outright – she could look upon the first scenario as repugnant and the second as ill-mannered. Or she might not wish to leave her daughters unaccompanied. After ten minutes had passed, Bridget began to doubt. After another five, she became entirely convinced of the failure of the mission. Her shoulders slumped. Before much longer, the theatre bell would ring and the audience would be expected to return to their seats.

The door opened.

She straightened, quickly angling her face a little to the side. Whether it was Lucy or a theatre attendant entering, she didn’t wish for either of them to observe her scarred cheek if she could help it. She distinguished Frances’s mannish jaw first as the woman peered around the doorway, and then Frances stepped aside and ushered Lucy into the cloakroom.

A crease between Lucy’s brows smoothed out as her gaze fell upon Bridget. ‘I suspected this mysterious request had come from you,’ she said, her tone neutral. ‘Tonight’s event has your stamp all over it, even if the majority of the assembly out there do not recognise it.’

‘But you still chose to come meet me?’ Bridget said, a tiny spark of hope igniting in her gut. Could Lucy be prepared to forgive her after all these years?

Her erstwhile friend gave a noncommittal shrug. ‘I will hear what you have to say. That is all.’

The tiny spark sputtered out. ‘I appreciate that,’ Bridget said quietly.

‘I’ll leave you two be,’ Frances said. ‘Do bear in mind that the bell will ring soon.’ She backed out, closing the door behind her.

Bridget and Lucy regarded each other in silence, and Bridget took the opportunity to scrutinise her old friend more closely. The small details that she could not make out from the stage now presented themselves plainly: the bloodshot tinge to her eyes, the downward curve of her mouth, the faint droop in her posture. Lucy had once been a person of great vitality and optimism – now she was but a pale imprint of that vivacious woman. It was all Bridget could do not to rush forwards and embrace her, to try to coax life back into her wilted form.

‘Oh, my dear Lucy,’ she murmured. ‘Who did you lose?’

Lucy cast a sad, self-conscious glance down at her mourning attire.

Scarcely wanting to ask, Bridget managed to squeeze out, ‘Was it Lord Newby?’

When Lucy looked up again, Bridget read the pain and acknowledgement in her expression.

‘Dearest, I am so deeply sorry,’ she said, conscious that the sympathy of a disgraced former friend would surely hold little value.

‘Thank you,’ Lucy said mechanically. It seemed like she would not say anything more but, abruptly, a small sob cracked out of her. ‘Oh, goodness,’ she mumbled, stifling it at once. ‘I do apologise.’

‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ Bridget said earnestly. ‘You are grieving. This is an extraordinarily difficult time for you.’

‘It has been…very hard.’ Lucy grimaced. ‘I ought not to still be so distressed. He passed a year ago. But apart from church, this is my first public outing since my transition from full mourning to half mourning. I must confess I’m finding it rather overwhelming.’

‘That is understandable,’ Bridget said, wanting so badly to wrap her hands around Lucy’s to give her comfort. ‘He accompanied you on many occasions to events such as this.’

‘More than once tonight, I turned to the seat beside me, meaning to share my appreciation of a witty line with him. I had to catch myself when I found Valerie there instead.’

Bridget pressed her lips together in compassion. ‘How are the two girls faring? But I shouldn’t call them girls, of course. They’re grown women now.’

‘They are,’ Lucy said with a watery sniff. ‘They were distraught at the loss of their papa, naturally, but they had been flourishing before that. Both of them are engaged to be married.’

‘Oh, that is happy news,’ Bridget said, keeping her enthusiasm muted.

‘Their weddings had to be delayed until they were out of mourning, but now they can move forwards with the preparations. I expect them both to be married by midsummer. They have made respectable matches—a viscount for Angela and an earl for Valerie.’

Bridget would have supposed it to be a source of joy for Lucy to see her daughters make such advantageous alliances, but her sorrowful air did not abate. If anything, she seemed to grow gloomier.

‘It is terribly selfish of me,’ she said, ‘only I cannot help but dread the day they both leave our home for good. I fear my loneliness will press even more heavily upon me in an entirely empty house.’

‘But I’m sure you will still see them often,’ Bridget said in an encouraging tone. ‘After they have settled into married life, they will be only too delighted to have their mama come to stay. And they will positively fight over you when their babies come along and they desperately need your advice.’

At last, Lucy mustered a small smile. ‘I do look forward to becoming a doting grandmother.’ Her smile fell away, no doubt as she remembered that there would be no doting grandfather by her side. She shook her head. ‘I am being quite ridiculous. Deep down, I always knew this day would come. Ronald was much older than me, after all. But when I was a green bride, I didn’t spare a thought for the likelihood that I would end up spending more of my life as a widow than a wife.’

Bridget had no words of consolation in response to this. Lord Newby had been Lucy’s senior by fifteen years, which put him in his mid-fifties at the time of his death. Objectively speaking, it was a reasonable age to attain, but of course that was no solace to his lonely, grieving widow.

Another grimace twisted Lucy’s countenance. ‘At least I may remain in my home for now. Ronald’s nephew inherited the Newby title and is still a bachelor, so he has no need of it yet. But I shall be obliged to remove to the dower house once he marries. I cannot decide whether that will be easier or harder to bear.’

Bridget felt her pity swell even more. Perhaps the dower house would be less painful for Lucy without memories of Lord Newby nestled into every corner, but it would also be an undeniable signal that her life had become superfluous without a husband to attend to nor children to rear.

Bridget swallowed. Emily was already grown, and Jack and Gus were only a few short years away from manhood. How would she feel if, God forbid, Cormac passed away and she found herself in Lucy’s unenviable position, redundant in the roles of both wife and mother?

She banished the thought uneasily. ‘Now that you are out of full mourning,’ she said, ‘perhaps rejoining society will ease some of your despondency? You might be able to find a sense of purpose in resuming work with the Ladies of Compassion, or even simply in socialising with others again. I’m sure Cassandra and Alice will be delighted to—’

‘I am no longer much acquainted with either of them,’ Lucy said rigidly.

Bridget blinked. ‘Whyever not? I understand that your contact with them would have been more limited this past year, but—’

‘Our discord began before my husband’s passing.’ Lucy wrinkled her large nose. ‘And I was the one who initiated the division. It pains me to admit this but I do not esteem them as highly as I once did.’

Bridget forced herself not to gape. Lucy, Cassandra and Alice had been close friends with each other before Bridget had ever joined their group and she knew that they had maintained their association long after that – Cormac had related to her how the trio had crossed paths with him when he came to London in pursuit of Emily. His spontaneous rescue of Alice before she was crushed beneath the wheels of a speeding carriage had resulted in the ladies identifying him as the man who had impersonated Oliver Davenport, and he had very swiftly found himself in a prison cell.

Lucy reached out and fingered the fur of a shawl hanging on the nearest brass rail. ‘No doubt Mr McGovern has already told you this, but the three of us were in attendance at the Old Bailey when he was tried for fraud.’

‘Yes,’ Bridget said cautiously. ‘He said that Alice was called upon as a witness.’

An expression of disgust rippled over Lucy’s countenance. ‘She was, and she told such a barefaced lie that it left me stunned with disbelief. I could hardly credit the fact that she sat there in a court of law and went so far as to commit perjury in her ambition to ensure Mr McGovern’s conviction.’ Lucy shot Bridget a wry look. ‘I know he is far from an innocent man, but in this he was blameless. She actually announced to the judge and jury that there had been a secret engagement between herself and Mr Daven—Mr McGovern. It was such a spiteful act on her part to try to punish him for not reciprocating her feelings. Much as Cassandra and I had tried to engineer that match, it was evident that he never paid more particular attention to Alice than any other lady. Apart from you, of course.’

Bridget winced. ‘You had begun to suspect our liaison before the truth came to light.’

Lucy’s fingers clutched the shawl’s fur more tightly. ‘I had, and that was something else I could hardly credit. Surely our dear friend, our admirable heroine of the workhouse, could not be engaged in a scandalous affair. How utterly absurd. For so long, I refused to give it any credence.’

Bridget felt the old sting of shame prickle across her skin. ‘But you ultimately confided your suspicions in Lord Newby.’

A shadow of hurt filled Lucy’s bloodshot eyes. ‘And he broke that confidence to inform Lord Wyndham. It was the one time when I felt he placed the value of male fellowship above that of marital loyalty. We went through a difficult period after that, though we eventually found an even keel again once I was ready to forgive him.’

Bridget noted that Lucy did not seek forgiveness for her own actions. Why would she? She did not approve of Bridget’s adulterous conduct with Cormac, so she would see no need to apologise for the disclosure of her misgivings that had led, albeit inadvertently, to their discovery.

Deciding that there was nothing to be gained from dwelling upon past deeds that could not be undone, Bridget said, ‘Did you confront Alice about her dishonesty?’

Lucy gave a grim nod. ‘She simply would not admit that her behaviour had been appalling. When I asked her how she would have felt had his conviction been secured based upon her false testimony, she said that she would have been entirely satisfied. To my shock, Cassandra concurred. According to her, the method did not matter so much as the verdict and she felt heartily disappointed that they had been cheated out of the spectacle of seeing the scoundrel being led away to a prison ship or a gallows.’ Lucy’s mouth twisted sardonically. ‘I cannot deny that Cassandra has on numerous occasions displayed a discouraging degree of shallowness in her character. But it truly astounded me that she could value her own thirst for entertainment above a basic sense of justice. I told her so, and she did not take my bluntness well. After exchanging some rather cutting remarks among the three of us, we ceased all familiar association. Since then, I have only met either of them in society situations where we have all taken care to keep our distance.’ Lucy sighed. ‘Initially, the loss did not seem so great. But now I feel like a building whose buttresses have all been torn down. Once my daughters’ husbands take them away, I shall have no pillars left to prop me up. It will be only a matter of time before I fall into isolated ruin.’

‘Oh, dearest, do not think that,’ Bridget said impulsively. ‘You shall always have my friendship if you ever wish to seek it.’

Lucy’s gaze became shuttered. Bridget ought to have known better than to suggest such a notion – in Lucy’s eyes, her character was as soiled as Alice’s and Cassandra’s. Lucy let go of the shawl and took a step back.

‘Why did you want to meet me tonight?’ she asked. ‘And in this clandestine way?’

‘To express my condolences, that’s all,’ Bridget said with sincerity. ‘There was no ulterior motive, I swear. As for the surreptitious nature of it, that was regrettably necessary. I’m sure you can see that it would not benefit our charitable cause were it to be discovered that I or Cormac had any connection to it.’

‘And you trust me not to divulge this fact to the other patrons once I return to the lobby?’

Bridget hesitated. In truth, it had not even occurred to her that revealing herself to Lucy might jeopardise her anonymity at large. Now, the na?veté of this venture struck her with full force. ‘I hope that you would not do so,’ she said weakly.

Lucy did not respond and in the silence that followed they heard the distant ringing of the theatre bell.

‘I must go,’ she said.

‘Lucy—’ Bridget started, beginning to panic.

‘I will not betray your identity,’ Lucy said stiffly. ‘I believe that this is a cause worth supporting and therefore I won’t do anything to impair its success.’

‘Thank you,’ Bridget said, relieved.

‘Although I scarcely dare to imagine how Lord Wyndham would react if he became aware of your involvement. Doubtless, he would immediately withdraw his generous donation and encourage everyone else to do likewise.’

Bridget endeavoured to maintain a bland expression at this as they heard a soft knock on the door.

‘Ladies, the bell,’ came Frances’s uneasy voice.

Lucy started to move towards the door. ‘Do not worry, I won’t breathe a word of this to him when I go back to the lobby.’ At Bridget’s palpable confusion, she halted to add, ‘I left Angela and Valerie in the company of Lord Wyndham and his son when Miss Blythe lured me away.’

‘Why were you speaking to Garrett in the first place?’ Bridget asked, perplexed.

The corners of Lucy’s mouth drooped a little more. ‘You are not the only one who wished to express condolences this evening. Tonight has been our first contact since the funeral. He and Ronald were long-standing companions, remember?’

Bridget did indeed remember. In fact, their bond had been so steadfast that Lord Newby had stood up with Garrett at his and Bridget’s wedding. With a jolt, she realised that Garrett had lost his closest friend upon Lord Newby’s death and that he must surely have been in a state of grief too. He had made no mention of his bereavement during the course of the events the previous summer, but then he had been justifiably distracted by the ordeal of his near hanging, courtesy of a group of angry, starving Irishmen.

Suddenly, Bridget’s mind caught on another detail that Lucy had mentioned. ‘His son was with him?’ she said with a touch of apprehension. Cormac had told her about his brief encounter with Patrick backstage – it sounded like the boy was still as reckless as ever in sexual matters, and Bridget didn’t like the idea of him being in close proximity to Angela and Valerie, who were all Lucy had left to bring her joy. ‘I must warn you—’

The door opened a crack and both the theatre bell and Frances’s voice grew louder as she hissed urgently, ‘The audience will be returning to their seats. It’s past time to go.’

Lucy hurried to the door and Bridget followed in her wake. ‘Please take heed,’ she said quickly. ‘Do not leave your daughters alone with Patrick Lambourne.’

Lucy’s eyes widened but there was no time to say anything else as Frances whisked Lucy away down the corridor and Bridget was left alone once again in the cloakroom.

She let out a shaky breath. Much as she hated to show a lack of faith in Cormac’s nephew, he had not yet demonstrated that he had the maturity to act like a gentleman. And Lucy’s daughters were still unmarried – heaven forbid that Patrick might take a fancy to one or the other and pursue a conquest without a thought for the consequences.

Because the consequences of sullying a chaste young woman would be so much graver than dallying with an already-married duchess.