Chapter 22

22

Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay.

The worst is death and death will have his day.

Richard II, Act 3, Scene 2

Bridger's father deteriorated rapidly in the night.

The doctor came to fetch him just after midnight, bleary-eyed and stammering. It was bad, very bad, and if he or Pimm had anything to say to their father while he was still somewhat lucid, now was the time to do it. Bridger received this information with a chill. For a moment he couldn't move, certain he had misheard the doctor.

"Now?" he asked, stupidly perhaps, but he was still half asleep.

The doctor grimaced, his mouth hanging open.

"Right. I'll find my brother. Thank you, doctor."

As Bridger fetched a candle and pushed out into the hall, he realized the temptation to blame himself for his father's sudden turn. He had, after all, strode into his study and called him a demon. All manner of self-flagellating thoughts arrived, each more extreme than the last, ending on the big crescendo with: I killed Father.

He recounted all of this to Pimm as they found their way to their father's bedchamber. It was a room Bridger had entered maybe two times in his life. Mr. Darrow demanded perfect privacy. As boys, they had come up with a game where they would dare each other to go into the room and whoever took the most steps past the threshold won. This game continued until they were caught, by their mother, thank heaven, and the look of abject terror on her face convinced them never to try it again.

"You didn't kill him," Pimm grunted. The lack of alcohol was taking its toll. Pimm clearly hadn't enjoyed even a moment of restful sleep. Bridger was somewhat the same, though for very different reasons. "And if you did, you should be given a medal. I thought he would hang around forever just to torment me."

"It's serious, Pimm. Even the death of a poor man is disruptive. Thank God Harris is already here."

Another vexing thought occurred: he had promised to return to Pressmore with all haste, and this would delay him significantly. Some of the staff had been alerted to the dire nature of circumstances, and Bridger detained the estate butler, asking him to please have a message sent to Pressmore Estate explaining the situation. Even then, he felt a panicked itch begin at the base of his throat. He had no idea what awaited Margaret when she returned from Cray Arches, and he simply had to hope that Lane would protect her if any accusations regarding her virtue were flung about.

Mr. Darrow, small and somewhat childlike in his bed, received his sons with a blank expression. The men took turns tripping through their goodbyes. If Bridger had doubted the doctor's fears, putting eyes on his father confirmed the man's worries. He had a vague instinct to take his father's hand, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Wanting to be moved to tenderness was not the same as genuinely feeling it, and it seemed blasphemous to deceive his father at this, his final hour. When it was obvious that he had departed, Bridger and Pimm stood on either side of the bed in silence. Their eyes met, and Pimm heaved a tremendous sigh and said, "I thought we would have longer."

Afterward, Pimm seemed taken by emotion and could not speak, so Bridger turned to the housekeeper and instructed that their father should be wrapped in the customary wool shroud, the house must be prepared for mourning, and black gloves and cravats should be aired out for the sons. There was an unendurable smell in the room that made Bridger's stomach roil. He dismissed himself, went downstairs, out the kitchen door, and to the tree he had liked best for reading as a child. The clouds were moving fast, distorting across the swollen white crescent of the moon like dancing ghouls. A crisp, decidedly unsummerish chill thrilled across the grounds. The spirits, he thought, were uneasy. There was a taste upon the air, crackling on the tongue, the dark presaging of another storm. Indeed, the dampness foretold rain.

The first winks of dawn seemed to hesitate. He stood in the moonlight and felt a shift. A few eager raindrops splashed the leaves above his head. His shoulders eased down, the muscles in his jaw relaxing. For the first time in, well, perhaps ever, Bridger breathed in and felt free.

He only wished Margaret could be there to see it.