Mark Alastair had been laid to rest in his finest, dressed as a man of his standing deserved. His coffin, adorned with a simple yet elegant engraving of the family crest, rested beneath a solemn canopy of yew trees, their branches swaying gently in the morning wind.
Bridget stood toward the back, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. She had not expected to feel cold, but grief had a way of seeping into the bones.
The clergyman’s voice droned on, steady and practiced, his words meant to comfort the living, though little could ease their grief.
Marjory stood beside the grave, poised yet fragile, her black mourning gown a stark contrast against the pale stone markers of those who had come before. The loss was a suffocating stillness that settled between them.
Even the household staff, many of whom had served Alastair for years, stood among the gentry, their faces drawn and solemn. The stable boys had been permitted to linger at the edges of the gathering, caps in hand, their usual restlessness subdued. They, too, had lost a man they respected.
Marjory had not wept before the others. She carried herself with the quiet dignity expected of a woman of her station, her back straight, her chin lifted. But Bridget saw the tremor in her shoulders, the way her fingers twisted and untwisted the handkerchief she clutched. The grief was there, beneath the carefully controlled exterior, simmering just below the surface.
Grenville stood to Bridget’s right, his expression unreadable, hands clasped firmly before him. Barrington, just beyond, kept his gaze fixed on the grave, his usual air of command tempered by unspoken respect. Even Blackwood, so often a man of practiced charm, stood in rigid silence, his gloved hands flexing slightly at his sides.
When the final prayers were spoken, and the first shovel of earth fell upon the coffin, a finality settled over them all. One by one, the mourners turned to depart, their murmured condolences barely breaking the still air.
Yet Marjory did not move.
Bridget hesitated, watching as the others drifted back toward the manor, their voices low, their steps slow. But Marjory lingered, her gaze fixed upon the fresh mound of earth.
Bridget stepped forward, quietly, carefully, until she stood beside her friend. For a long moment, Marjory said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, “He hated being cold.”
The words were so soft Bridget almost thought she imagined them.
Marjory exhaled a slow, unsteady breath, her grip on the handkerchief tightening. “Even in the dead of summer, he’d complain of a chill.” Her lips pressed together, as if willing herself not to say more, not to let grief pull her under.
Bridget reached out, her gloved fingers gently brushing Marjory’s forearm in quiet support.
Marjory swallowed hard. “They took him from me.” The words trembled on the air, raw, pained. “And I cannot even weep.”
Bridget’s heart clenched. “You are not alone,” she murmured.
Marjory turned her face away, blinking fiercely against the sting of unshed tears. Her grief was a cruel thing, and the expectations placed upon a grieving widow even crueler.
Bridget would stay with her. For as long as Marjory needed. She let out a slow breath, forcing her hands to remain at her sides. This was not her loss to grieve, but she understood it. More than that, she understood the need for closure. And she would make certain Marjory had it.
Marjory’s gaze remained fixed on the headstone as her fingers brushed over the folds of her gown, a slight frown crossing her face.
“He kept notes on everything, you know. Every deal, every meeting. Even things I told him in confidence.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “But he never trusted a single place to hold them. He’d jot things down on scraps of paper. He used to slip them into books or tuck them away where no one would think to look. I always teased him about it, how he couldn’t let a single thought slip away unnoticed. He didn’t stop until he couldn’t find what he was looking for.”
“Did he keep his notes somewhere specific?” Bridget asked.
Marjory blinked, her gaze distant. “Yes. There was a book, a battered old volume with a cracked spine. It wasn’t valuable, at least not to anyone but him. He used it to store things, slipped pages inside, pressed between the covers. He wouldn’t go anywhere without it.” Her brow furrowed. “I thought I’d find the book in his desk, but it wasn’t there.”
“What did he write on the papers? Things about his day?” Bridget pressed.
When Marjory looked at her, she noticed she swallowed hard. “He wasn’t writing about himself. He was writing names.” Marjory’s eyes grew heavy, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I’m simply too tired to think right now,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Seeing the strain etched on her friend’s face, Bridget gently reached for Marjory’s arm. “Come with me. Let’s get you back to the house so you can rest.” Reluctantly, Marjory allowed herself to be led away, her footsteps slow as the reality of the day hit her.
Once Marjory was safely tucked away in the quiet of her private room, Bridget took a deep breath. She needed to speak with Grenville immediately.
But before she could take another step, raised voices drifted from the drawing room.
Frowning, she followed the sound, stopping just outside the threshold as Judge Scofield stood at the center of the room. Everyone was there, including the staff.
The air was thick with subdued conversation and clinking glassware, the guests attempting to return to some semblance of normalcy after the burial. The tension remained, but there was an unspoken expectation that the worst had passed.
“I will not keep you long. But there are matters that must be addressed.”
