Page 45 of Redemption for the Baron

Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “Poor Marjory. I suppose it’s to be expected after such a shock.”

Catriona hesitated, her expression faltering. “There is… something else, my lady.”

Bridget looked up from the fire. “Go on.”

“Well,” Catriona began, glancing toward the door, “Killian heard from his lordship’s valet that the staff are uneasy. They think there’s no closure, not for Lady Marjory, and not for themselves. They’re wondering whether they should prepare for the funeral.”

“A funeral,” Bridget repeated softly, her gaze distant. “Yes… it would provide some solace.”

Catriona nodded. “The valet also said his lordship was meeting someone the morning of the chase. That’s why he was near the lowlands and that he was told to stay behind, which wasn’t like him at all.”

Bridget frowned. “Did the valet know who Alastair was meeting?”

Catriona shook her head. “No, but he said Lord Alastair seemed nervous. Almost as if he knew something was wrong.”

Bridget tapped her fingers against the arm of her chair, her mind racing. “And Killian? Did he hear anything?”

Catriona nodded. “The stable lads mentioned a visitor, a man none of them recognized, came by a few days ago. He and Lord Alastair spoke privately in the stables. It was brief, but it left everyone wondering. The visitor didn’t stay long.”

Bridget leaned back, her thoughts churning. “Thank you, Catriona. This is helpful. If you or Killian hear anything else, no matter how small, tell me immediately.”

“Of course, my lady.” Catriona hesitated, then added softly, “It’s troubling, isn’t it? To think someone might have meant him harm.”

“It is,” Bridget agreed quietly. “But we’ll get to the truth.”

As Catriona left the room, Bridget stared into the empty hearth. The scullery maid’s infatuation and Marjory’s grief were harmless enough, but the rest? A secret meeting, a mysterious visitor, and Alastair’s unusual behavior painted a much darker picture. One that she knew she couldn’t solve alone.

The drawing room hummed with quiet conversation as the guests gathered for lunch. Miss Hathaway, seated near the hearth, gestured for attention.

“I believe it’s time we address the matter on everyone’s mind,” she began, her voice gentle but resolute. “The staff are understandably shaken, and Lady Marjory… well, she hasn’t made a decision yet, but surely a funeral would provide a sense of closure for everyone.”

The room fell silent as the weight of her words settled over the group. Davenport, his usual cheer subdued, nodded. “It would. But has anyone spoken with the magistrate? I assume Judge Scofield would need to approve arrangements.”

Barrington, seated near the window, cleared his throat. “I spoke with Scofield earlier. He’s asked that everyone remain here until the investigation is concluded. However, a funeral might be permissible, provided it does not interfere with the inquiry.”

Miss Hathaway glanced toward the hallway where Marjory had last been seen. “Someone should speak to her. Perhaps broach the subject.”

Bridget exchanged a glance with Grenville, a silent question passing between them. Grenville inclined his head slightly, deferring to her.

“I’ll speak to her,” Bridget said, her voice steady. “If she’s amenable, the staff can begin planning.”

Miss Hathaway offered a small smile. “Thank you, Lady Bridget. I’m sure it will bring her comfort.”

Bridget left the room and followed the quiet sound of footsteps down the corridor. In a secluded corner near a carved oak door, she found Marjory seated alone, staring out at the gardens. The recent events seemed to take their toll. Bridget gently cleared her throat.

“Marjory,” Bridget began softly, “there’s talk of planning the funeral. They say it might bring some measure of comfort.”

Marjory turned slowly, her eyes reflecting a deep, unspoken grief. “I… I’ve been avoiding that subject,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “The thought of laying him to rest feels so final, like sealing away the last hope of understanding.”

Bridget reached out, resting a reassuring hand on Marjory’s arm. “Perhaps, honoring his memory properly, we’d be preserving the dignity he deserves. It allows us to share our grief, make it easier to bear if only for a short while.”

Marjory’s gaze dropped for a moment before meeting Bridget’s steady eyes. “You’re right, of course. I only wish I were stronger in facing it all.” A faint, rueful smile touched her lips, and she added, “And yet, I suppose we must begin. For his sake as well as our own.”

Bridget offered a gentle nod. “Then I’ll help you every step of the way.”

*

The following day,the sky remained a dull, oppressive gray, as if the heavens themselves mourned with those gathered near the Alastair family gravesite. Though it was June, a brisk coastal breeze swept through the churchyard, rustling the black mourning veils and carrying with it the scent of damp earth. The air held a lingering chill, one that clung to the skin despite the season.

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