Chapter Three

"The guests have begun arriving, Miss."

Bridget thought her chest was about to cave in. She stood at the window of her bedchamber she had been sleeping in for the past four days, her safe haven from the exciting world Elizabeth had been creating outside the doors. The very same safe haven she would soon have to leave to attend Elizabeth's themed summer party.

She had been dreading this moment with every waking hour. Now that it was upon her, she could hardly breathe.

"Relax, Miss Bridget," Mary said soothingly, clearly sensing her distress. She guided Bridget away from the window, away from the sight of the carriages coming in the distance, and to the bed. "It may not be as bad as you think."

"Not as bad as I think?" Bridget echoed with a delirious laugh. "Heavens, Mary, I have not seen half these people in years! They will take one look at me and…and…"

"And nothing, miss," Mary said gently. "You are still the same beautiful lady you have always been. Scar or no scar."

Bridget sighed. It was fine in the solitude of her chambers. Here she could be herself, could relax with Mary as her only company even as the dark cloud of anxiousness was creeping over her. The moment she set foot outside the door, she knew the empty shell of herself would come out to play.

"Perhaps I could feign illness?" she suggested.

Mary frowned sternly. "Lady Elderwood has been looking forward to this party since the moment you arrived, miss. That simply would not do."

"Elizabeth will be fine without me. She has barely had my company these past few days."

"But not without trying. She's been more successful at coaxing you away from your solitude than Lord Kendall."

"Elizabeth is persistent," Bridget sighed.

"Yes, admirably so." Mary sat next to her on the bed, taking Bridget's hand. "And from what I can see, she is also rather kind and understanding. I am sure if you open up to her and tell her how you feel, she will be more than accommodating."

Bridget doubted it. Elizabeth had a way of bending the world around her to suit her will, not the other way around. Bridget would hate to be the one to dampen her spirits just because she was not feeling up to seeing other people.

"I am most grateful for your kind efforts to raise my spirits, Mary," Bridget sighed, standing. She faced the standing mirror and sighed again. "I do not think I can hide up here much longer. If Elizabeth does not come to find me, Father will."

"Here, take this." Mary hurried over to the armoire and retrieved Bridget's small, delicate embroidery frame, with thread wound around a slender needle. She brought it over and expertly tucked it into Bridget's hidden pocket. "Take care not to let it stab you."

A small smile touched Bridget's lip. "Surely I must be able to handle some time away from my embroidery?" she tried to joke but it fell flat.

Mary still offered her a smile. "Perhaps it may prove unnecessary for you. I offer it to you merely as a precaution."

"I appreciate it." Knowing that she had it on her made her feel much better. Bridget reached out to squeeze Mary's hand before taking one last look at herself in the mirror.

It turned out she did not have a flower themed dress since Elizabeth thought all the blues, browns, and whites she'd brought with her would simply not do. So two days ago, Elizabeth had dragged her to the village, despite Bridget's obvious reluctance, and had the local modiste fit her into a primrose colored gown with lace trimmings and a layer of tulle under the skirt. The dress was lovely. Her? Not so much.

Perhaps once upon a time, she'd deemed herself pretty. After all, she had long, thick curls that were quite fashionable amongst her peers, with a slight frame and deep green eyes. But the scar on the side of her face ruined her beauty. Bridget could see nothing but it alone. She was sure it was the same for everyone else who came across her.

That was why she draped her hair over that side of her face, hoping to hide as much of the scar as she could. Since the end of it touched her chin, it was not as effective as she hoped.

She turned away from her reflection, unable to bear the sight any longer. Putting her hand against the embroidery tucked into her pocket, Bridget made her way out of her bedchamber. Each step she took to the main floor had her heart pounding against her chest and her palms growing clammy beneath her gloves.

"I thought I might have to come and get you myself," her father said the moment he spotted her. He stood in the foyer, looking up at her with that same disconcerting stare that seemed to see right through her.

"I considered simply not attending," she confessed softly.

Frank's lips twitched, brows raising slightly. "Then thank heavens you thought against it. I would not have been able to manage Elizabeth all on my own."

She managed a weak smile that fell a moment later. It felt as if bile kept rising and falling in her throat. She took her father's offered arm and together, they made their way through the manor and out into the garden.

Far more guests were present than she'd thought. Bridget halted the moment she stepped outdoors to see an already sizeable crowd of London's finest in the open expanse in Elizabeth's garden.

"Come now, Bridget," her father said softly, guiding her into the thick of the party.

Bridget spotted Elizabeth and Henry a short distance away, greeting their incoming guests. She didn't know if it was a good or bad thing that they did not notice their arrival just yet.

"Lord Kendall." A stately gentleman swept up in front of them, a lovely brunette on his arm. He looked Frank up and down, bearing a broad grin. "Here you are, you simpleton! I was convinced you had absconded from London altogether!"

"You are quite the simpleton if you were unaware that I frequent White's nearly every evening," Frank declared with a jovial laugh. He released Bridget to give the man a one-armed hug. "I did not know you had returned from your travels, Lord Melthorpe. How fared India?"

"Unbearably hot. But now that I am in London, I do not know if I preferred the heat to the humidity. I am happy to be back though." His eyes landed on Bridget, brows raising. "Is this your daughter?"

"Yes. Bridget? Meet Lord Melthorpe and I assume this is his lovely wife."

"A pleasure," the brunette purred, extending a hand.

Frank captured the hand and bowed politely. Bridget kept her eyes on the grass, sinking into a curtsy.

"My, I think the last time I saw you, you were still being taught by your governess," Lord Melthrope went on. "How the time flies. You look quite…different, Miss."

"Yes, well some time has gone by," Frank said. "It is natural for anyone to look different after so many years."

Lord Melthrope's frown just deepened. "No, she certainly looks older, I agree. But there is something…oh."

He saw it. She saw the moment both Lord and Lady Melthropes' eyes fell on her scar. She wished she could find a rock to crawl under.

The only thing she could manage was trying not to curl into a ball and sob. This was what she'd feared. She hadn't set foot outside for a full minute yet and she was already being judged.

Lady Melthorpe raised her hand to her lips, gazing at Bridget with unending pity. "Oh my," she murmured softly, but Bridget still heard.

Bridget couldn't meet their eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to catch her breath and keep the air in her lungs. "It was nice meeting you," she whispered. "If you would excuse me."

She didn't wait for their responses. She didn't even know if they'd heard her. Bridget felt her father's reluctance when she pulled away from him but he didn't do anything to stop her. Bridget didn't dare look at him, knowing just what she would find. Pity and sadness hung so heavily around them that it threatened to steal her breath altogether.

This was a mistake, she thought, tears escaping her eyes. She kept her eyes on the ground, head down, hurrying along a sidelong path that took her away from the thick of the party. She should not have attended. She should not have come here at all.

A sob caught in her throat. Bridget caught a few curious looks as she hurried past and she didn't dare wonder if they looked at her that way because of her scar or because she was running away with tears in her eyes. Either way, she knew she would be the subject of gossip in a matter of an hour.

She wasn't looking where she was going. Her only focus was getting away from the party as quickly as she could. If she was away for long, her father would come looking for her. If she evaded him, then she wouldn't put it past Elizabeth to send her footmen on a frantic search party, which would only bring far more attention than Bridget wanted. She had only a few minutes of solitude. Ten, perhaps twenty. She intended to make the best of it.

Soon enough, the hum of chatter began to fade as she found herself in a quiet section of the garden. The tears had abated by then and her breathing had settled. But the fear and ache settled deep in her bones had no intention of budging she knew.

Bridget came to a stop at an alcove tucked behind a thick row of rose bushes. She ducked within, settling onto the stone bench before she took a deep breath.

When would it get better?

It had been years and she was no closer to finding the answer. Every day she was reminded of what had happened. If she did not find evidence of the past in the words of others, gossip that never seemed to die, then she found it in her reflection. The horrid scar marring her cheek would brand her forever. It tore at her self-esteem and reminded her of how wonderful life had been before everything came crashing down around her.

At least she still found solace in her embroidery. At this point, it was the only thing keeping her from sinking deeper into the hole of despair.

She pulled out the small embroidery ring from her pocket and silently thanked Mary for thinking to give it to her. It was almost as if Mary knew that something like this would happen. That thought didn't make her feel much better, though.

Bridget wiped her tears, straightened her shoulders, and did what she always did when she felt the black waves of anguish washing over her. She lost herself in her embroidery.

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