Just a Marriage of Convenience with the Duke by Hazel Linwood
Chapter 23
Bridget sat straight upright on the low, wooden stool, answering the gaoler’s questions as honestly as she could. The old man, seventy years of age if he was a day, seemed utterly at a loss.
“So, you’re saying that this earl has kidnapped you from your father’s house,” the old man said slowly, his voice trembling nearly as badly as his hands as he attempted to write her responses.
“That is correct, sir,” Bridget replied, covering her impatience as he painstakingly wrote every letter in his scribbled hand.
“And he brought you here—”
“Yes, and he intended to take me to Scotland to be married,” she repeated, trying not to sound exasperated.
She feared she may be failing in that effort, though. It had been two hours already since the apologetic constable had delivered her to this tiny gaol, one that was thankfully empty of other prisoners at the present.
“But you said there is a contract for your marriage, already signed by your father?” the man said, wheezing slightly before a barking cough shook his thin shoulders.
“That is correct, but there was already a different contract signed and in place,” Bridget explained again, beginning to feel desperate.
“But if this man has a contract, then taking you to be married is unusual, but not a crime. In fact, he could take issue with you going back on this contract,” the gaoler pointed out, still scribbling incessantly.
This is hopeless!Bridget thought, wondering how she would explain.
“Sir, the earl is not my betrothed. He is a pretender who forced my father’s hand through blackmail,” Bridget explained slowly. “My true fiancé is the Duke of Lockhart, and he has vowed to ensure that my contract with the earl is undone. Besides, my father never gave the man permission to take me out of London. The earl actually stated that he was carrying me directly home from a ball, which was a blatant lie. Without informing my family of my whereabouts, he ordered the driver to head north out of the city in the dark of night!”
The gaoler tapped his pen against his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose that is a little upsetting.”
A little?!Bridget shrieked inside her head, but she only nodded.
“That does not explain why you stole from Mr. Amberton, though,” he continued, writing something new.
“I was hungry, that is all,” she answered, exhausted and still famished. “I offered to pay him handsomely for the single, unripe apple—”
“But not until after you had already taken it, and not until he became upset with you. That does not look very innocent, you know.”
Bridget propped her elbows on her knees and let her head fall to her hands, covering her face. Had the entire world gone mad? Lord Haskins kidnapped her, and the gaoler said it was practically his right. The farmer would have her sent to the colonies to pay for her vicious crimes, and the gaoler seemed to agree.
“Sir, is it possible for you to send word to my father? He can make this right, I assure you,” Bridget pleaded.
“Certainly! Do you have the cost of postage? Or the price of a messenger?” the man inquired, and Bridget realized he was serious.
“I did not have the price of an undersized apple, how am I to have the price of sending a letter?” Bridget asked, fighting to keep her tone civil when all she wanted to do was scream in frustration.
“I think I know a way. My son keeps a posthouse here in the village and they are often in need of some help. The gaol is no place for any woman, let alone the daughter of an earl,” the old man explained. “If you will work there to pay the fee and the fine for your theft, then I will send word on your behalf.”
Bridget’s shoulders slumped, but she immediately brightened. “Certainly, that is more than fair.”
“Then I shall send a letter off at once, trusting that you will do the honorable thing. Otherwise, that will be another charge against you,” he said. “Come with me, and I’ll take you to the posthouse.”
Bridget had no choice but to follow. She stepped out of the low building without looking back at the bars across two of the windows, not wishing to ever see such a sight again. Though the village was fairly small, it seemed there were a great many people going about their business—or hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman dressed in a man’s clothes who’d been brought in for stealing.
Their faces are not at all friendly or charitable, Bridget thought sadly as she ducked her head and kept her eyes on the ground in front of her. It’s a look I’ve seen far too often when any of the children from the school was in need.
At the posthouse, the keeper took one look at her petite frame and too-big men’s clothes, then declared that she wasn’t fit to work indoors. Instead, he set her to the task of mucking the horse stalls for the visitors and putting down fresh hay, a task that was to be her daily chore, before ordering her to tend to the pigs as well.
“You can sleep in here,” the posthouse owner said, bringing out a bowl of watered-down stew and coarse oilcloth to serve as Bridget’s blanket. “I’d draw some water from the well and wash your face, if I were you.”
Bridget took the bucket, the same one she’d used dozens of times that day to refill the horses’ drinking troughs and used it to scrub as much of the grime from her hands and face as she could. She strung the oilcloth up in one of the cleaned, empty stalls and washed the rest of herself as well, then hurried to put on her disguise once more.
By nightfall, Bridget was nearly to the point of exhaustion. She folded the oilcloth and laid it on the hay so that she might lay on top of it and beneath its edge at the same time. She could not help but weep as she neared sleep but held on dearly to the hope that her time in these confines would be short.
I must remember the children, Bridget thought before she drifted off. They live like this each and every day, grateful for even such a stew or such a blanket. If they are not too good to be grateful for it, then neither am I!
By the third day, though, Bridget’s spirits were failing her. There had been no word from her father, no rescue from her family, no reprieve from the filth and toil. The posthouse keeper seemed to take particular delight in punishing the known thief with even more debasing work, and therefore found more and more arduous and humiliating tasks to occupy her time.
“You there, girl!” the man bellowed from within as Bridget slumped past the window, her arms weighed down by the buckets of slop for the pigs. “Fetch the eggs for the kitchen at once!”
Bridget only nodded before blowing the hair from her eyes. It was a warm day and already the sun beat down on her as she worked, but she dared not take off her cap to feel the breeze against her hair or remove the coat that protected her arms from the scratchy hay. She quickly dumped the slop over the fence into the pigs’ trough, then returned the buckets to their place before going into the squat henhouse beside the stable.
At once, the frightened birds began squawking and flapping their wings, alerting each other to the intruder’s presence. Tiny tufts of white floated through the air, drifting into Bridget’s mouth as she gasped in surprise. She choked and spat the offending feathers out before resorting to swiping at them with the hem of her shirt.
“Would you hold still!” Bridget demanded as the chickens took turns pecking at her hand and cheeks when she sought to retrieve the eggs that were tucked beneath their plump bodies.
By the time she had gathered all of the eggs into the pockets of her coat, Bridget’s hands and wrists were bloodied. She winced as she looked down at the scratches and peck marks, desperate to wash them as soon as she could.
“Here are the eggs,” Bridget said forlornly when she went around to the kitchen door. The cook held out a bowl for her to empty her pockets into, then cried aloud when she saw Bridget’s hands.
“What the devil ya been doin’, girl?” the old woman demanded, grasping Bridget’s arm, and turning it this way and that.
“The chickens got me,” she answered, though as soon as she’d spoken the words aloud, a soft laugh escaped her mouth at how silly that sounded.
“Didja not know to chase ‘em out o’ that house afore ya tried to get the eggs?” the woman asked, already reaching for a wet cloth to dab at the bloodied marks.
“No, I’m sorry. I’ve never collected eggs from the chickens before.”
Bridget realized how lofty her statement sounded and she was at once ashamed of appearing too good to know these things. For her part, the cook looked on Bridget with a sympathetic eye.
“Ya poor girl, I’ve told that man more’n once what I think of his brutality! This will not stand!”
The cook strode over to a door on the other side of the kitchen and called out for a girl named Betsy. Within moments, a young lady about Bridget’s age appeared in the doorway, staring curiously at her.
“Betsy, go and fetch this one somethin’ to put on, somethin’ that don’t drag the ground when she walks. Enough’s enough. There’s makin’ a body work off their debt, and then there’s just bein’ cruel for the sport of it. I’ll not have it anymore, not so long as I’m around!” the cook said loudly, as though daring the innkeeper to overhear and argue.
“Come on then,” Betsy said, smiling at Bridget. “I bet you’d like a comb for yer hair, too.”
Bridget smiled gratefully. “I would, thank you.”
“Yer so thin, I wager my gown from last summer’ll fit ya well. And though ‘tis not fancy, my other cap will keep yer hair up without fallin’ in yer eyes,” Betsy said as she began climbing the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, Bridget passed room after empty room, looking in each one longingly at the freshly made beds. She fumed slightly at knowing these rooms had been standing unused all this time while she’d been made to sleep on the ground with the animals. Still, it was her punishment, and she was simply grateful that she’d been allowed to work it off instead of languishing in the gaol.
“Here ya are,” Betsy said, pulling some things out of a drawer and laying them out across the foot of the bed. “I’ll leave ya to it, call out if ya cannot tie the back.”
“Thank you so much, Betsy. Truly,” Bridget said.
“Oh, the water! I’ll go’n get a pitcher for ya to wash. And… don’t mind me da, he’s a good sort even if he’s stern,” Betsy said a little sheepishly. “He means well, though he’s been harsher than need be.”
“I hope the cook doesn’t get in trouble for standing up for me,” Bridget said shyly, but Betsy only laughed.
“Trouble? That’s me ma! If anyone’s gonna face some trouble, it’s Da for not taking better care o’ ya!” Betsy laughed again and left Bridget to go after some water.
After scrubbing herself clean and drying on a coarse cloth Betsy had thought to bring up, Bridget dressed and brushed out her hair, then fashioned it up as best she could before putting on the cap. There was no glass to see if she looked all right, but that didn’t matter now. She was finally in clothes that were seemly and fit well, and no longer cared about the cut of the cloth.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any shoes for ya, but I only have the one pair,” Betsy said, sticking out her foot from the edge of her skirts and showing Bridget.
“That’s quite all right, the gown is more than generous. Besides, I think I’m getting used to the sturdy boots,” Bridget joked, holding out her leg and turning it around to show off the comically oversized items. “Truly, thank you for your generosity. I will remember it and repay you as soon as I am able.”
“Think nothin’ of it,” Betsy said, waving off Bridget’s thanks. “But let’s be on afore Da has a fit and calls us out!”
The following morning, at long last, the words Bridget had prayed to hear were finally spoken. The gaoler returned to the posthouse and inquired after her, waiting until she’d washed her face and hands once more before being permitted to enter by the innkeeper.
“My dear, it seems as though your betrothed has come for you,” the gaoler announced, turning toward the door.
Patrick!Bridget thought, her heart nearly leaping from her chest even as her knees felt weak from relief.
She cared not that he would see her in such a downtrodden state, nor that she likely reeked of animals and hay. Her thoughts only turned to the knowledge that her nightmarish ordeal was finally over, that the man she loved and respected had come for her.
Bridget turned to look where the gaoler pointed, but she felt a rush of sickness almost at once. Instead of Patrick’s handsome face and ready smile, Lord Haskins strolled through the doorway, his triumphant sneer striking fear in Bridget.
“Hello, my dearest. Shall we depart?”
