Heart of the Beholder

11

brIDGETTE LET OUT A LONG, slow breath as she ascended the front steps to Lord Thornwood’s manor. The line to pay taxes in the market had been long and moved torturously slow because almost every villager had to plead for more time to pay the full amount due. No one had been arrested, which Bridgette had been grateful for, but her heart ached for everyone who had gotten on their desperate knees and begged with tears in their eyes, only to have the tax collector roll his eyes and scribble something next to their name before shooing them away. They were granted more time to get the money, but they would also have to pay an extra five silver pieces. Bridgette looked up at the manor as she approached the door. If she were lucky enough to afford to live in such a large house like Lord Thornwood, she would give away all her extra gold to each of the villagers who didn’t have enough.

Bridgette used the brass knocker and stepped back. While she had waited in the line, she’d had a lot of time to think about whether she should enter through the servants’ door as usual or come to the front to make more of a statement. By the time she’d handed over the three gold pieces for herself, her mother, and Birdie, she had decided she would go to the front because she wasn’t going to pretend nothing happened. Things had happened which needed to be addressed.

The door opened slowly, and Edgar peered out of the open crack. “Miss Bridgette, you came back,” he exclaimed and swung the door open wide. “Please, come in.”

“Hello, Edgar,” Bridgette said as she stepped inside. “I am back, but there are some things I would like to discuss first.”

“I expected nothing else,” Edgar said in his proper, butler voice. “Let's go into the sitting room.”

Bridgette froze. “You didn’t take the portrait down,” she whispered in surprise.

“No, I did not,” he said with a smile.

“But he ordered you to take it down,” Bridgette said.

Edgar opened the sitting room door and held out his hand. “Please, come and sit, Bridgette, and I will explain.”

Bridgette walked in and sat in the same chair she had sat in the first time she came. Edgar sat across from her. He let out a breath and said, “After you left, I confronted Lord Thornwood.” Bridgette didn’t like the sound of that. “I told the Master he had no right to treat you like that. It is a ridiculous thing for someone to get upset about, so I told him it would stay.”

“And he just accepted what you said?” she asked suspiciously.

“He did push back a little, but I think he realized it wasn’t a battle he wanted to spend time fighting.”

Bridgette nodded and smoothed her black work dress out with her hands. “Edgar, you are one of the kindest people I know. You have a set of skills and years of experience that could let you have any position of your choosing.”

Edgar blinked and said, “That is very kind of you to say, Miss Bridgette.”

“So why do you choose to serve someone like Lord Thornwood?” she blurted out. Edgar looked a little surprised by the question. “What are your reasons for facing his moods day after day and putting up with his outbursts? Why do you stay when you could be anywhere else? I realize there must be something I am missing, and I would like to understand and help, if I can.”

The butler’s brow furrowed, and he took a minute to think before responding. Bridgette waited patiently, not wanting to rush him.

“I have been in Lord Thornwood’s life, even before he was out of the womb,” he said hesitantly. “As a servant of many stations through the years, I have witnessed many of the events that have happened in the Master’s life. Now, I do not know what he would or would not have me share with you, but I can say this: as a child and young boy, Lord Thornwood was very creative and motivated to learn new things. It was refreshing to be in his company. We all knew he was destined for great things, but fate dealt him a bad hand, and he did not endure well. I suppose I stay because I am not ready to give up on that young man just yet. I don’t leave because I need him to know not everyone is against him.”

Bridgette nodded to herself. “That makes sense. I am glad he has you. I don’t have as deep of a connection to him as you do, but I feel like I can’t just walk away, even when he loses his temper.”

“So you will continue to work here?” Edgar asked. It was easy to see the hope in his eyes.

“Yes, but I must request something in return,” Bridgette said sheepishly. “I don’t need an apology from him; I just need to know that he will try to react differently the next time something isn’t how he likes it.”

Edgar nodded. “Well, I can’t speak for him, but I can tell him of your request.”

Bridgette picked at her nails and tried to be brave. “I think I will talk to him myself, if that is alright. I can deliver his lunch to him and do it then.”

“If that is what you want, I suppose I will allow it,” Edgar said with a smile.

“One more thing,” she said quickly.

“Yes?”

“Can I work on the garden? I can’t stop thinking about it and how I could transform the space into something beautiful,” Bridgette said, not able to hide her excitement.

Edgar chuckled. “It was not high on my list of things to do, but if you finish the things I need you to do, I don’t see why you can’t spend some time on it every day. I will even pick up some seeds or whatever you need the next time I do my errands.”

Bridgette beamed. “Thank you, Edgar. I am happy to still be working here, and I will try my best to not mess things up.”

“I do not believe you are capable of messing anything up, but I am not the one you have to worry about.”

brIDGETTE FOCUSED ON HER brEATHING as she carried the lunch tray up the stairs. The last thing she wanted to do was to spill the Master’s food all over the clean rugs when she was trying to convince him she wasn’t an invalid. She reached the study and knocked. There was no answer. She knocked louder, but still there was no response.

Cautiously, she turned the handle and opened the door. She gave her eyes a moment to adjust and discovered no one was sitting behind the desk. She placed the tray down and stepped back. Where was he? Did she need to find him and let him know his lunch was ready?

The grandfather clock chimed twelve times from the entrance hall, signifying the lunch hour. Bridgette glanced around and got an absurd idea. Maybe she could learn something about his interests in the room he spent most of his time in. She silently moved to the window and opened the curtains. The light revealed a small table with two chairs and what looked to be a game of sorts. She looked at the opened door, then bent down to study the white and black checkerboard and the game pieces. She picked up a corner piece; it looked like a brick tower that belonged on the edge of a castle. She set it down and picked up another piece that was shaped like the head of a horse. It was made out of a heavy material, and the details were breathtaking. She sighed and set the piece back in its place. She had no idea how to play the game, so it was not helpful.

She kept looking, but made sure her back was never to the door. She wandered over to something that was covered by a sheet on the wall. She lifted a corner and peered under it. It was a mirror. She pulled the sheet higher and looked at her reflection. It had been a long time since she had looked at herself in something other than a dirty window or a bucket of water. Now that she thought about it, the last time she had looked in a mirror was over eight months ago—before the fire. A life so different than the one she lived now.

Bridgette reached out and placed her hand on the reflective surface. This Bridgette looked different from the Bridgette who lived in a nice house with her mother and father in Willow Haven. The girl who looked back at her now had freckles on her sun-kissed cheeks. She was thinner, but stronger. She looked older, so much older than the span of eight months would explain. Her attention moved from the mirror to the back of the hand she had pressed to the glass. She glared at the thick, jagged scar. So much had changed in a short few months, but she wasn’t ready to face it all at the moment. Bridgette hastily stepped away from the mirror, and let the sheet fall.

She looked around again. There were no footsteps down the hall or any other sign of anyone close by, so she kept searching. A bookshelf behind the desk caught her attention. She carefully made her way around the desk, making sure not to bump anything, and scanned the titles. A thin layer of dust sat on the shelves, which would make Edgar frown, but it made Bridgette smile because it showed her what book had been pulled out recently. She pulled out the book where the dust had been disturbed, and opened it. Her brow furrowed when she realized it was a genealogy book of the Thornwood family line. The texture of the pages told her the book was made a long time ago. The names on the first page were common, but had slightly different spellings. There wasn’t a lot of information at the beginning of the book, but a few pages in, every name had at least a birth date and a death date, and some also had a marriage date. Bridgette’s eyes went wide. The dates were from three hundred years in the past. She flipped through the pages and slowed her pace when she got near the end of the book.

She read the names and dates carefully. A man by the name of Soren Thornwood had married a woman named Auden Shoemaker, and together they’d had three children: two sons and a daughter. The oldest son’s name was Leander. There was no marriage date or children connected to his name, but he did have a date of death. Bridgette calculated that it would soon be the tenth anniversary of his death. The second son’s name was completely blotted out with black ink. “That is strange,” Bridgette said to herself. “Maybe he was disowned?” The daughter’s name was Adair. She was twelve years younger than her oldest brother, and to Bridgette’s regret, there was no marriage date for Adair, but a death date for two years ago. She couldn’t place it, but the daughter’s name seemed familiar. “Where do you fit into this, Lord Thornwood? Are you the crossed out brother? The brother’s son, since this is your uncle’s estate?” she wondered out loud.

With a quick glance at the open door, Bridgette moved to put the book back, but stopped when a bundle of papers fell out of the back cover. She picked them up and blinked in surprise. It was a genealogy of the royal family, starting at the birth of the Oakwater Kingdom five hundred years ago. Bridgette carefully scanned the pages. There were beautiful, miniature hand-painted portraits for each name. She recognized some of the names of well-known kings and other rulers of the kingdom from the past. She froze when she saw a familiar surname. “Thistle?” She didn’t know anyone else besides Doctor Thistle with that name.

She continued on to the last of the pages, where she was sure to recognize more of the names. “Ah there you are, King Theron Blackmoore, may you rest in peace. I suppose I forgot about the wake that was held for you yesterday, but in my defense, I wasn’t invited, and I don’t really know you,” she said to herself. Her eyes moved to the woman’s portrait next to his. “What a lovely wife you had—” Bridgette gasped. Adair Thornwood looked up from her place on the page, a miniature version of what was hung on the wall above the grandfather clock. Of course the name sounded familiar. Adair Blackmoore was the name of the late queen. Bridgette followed the line that connected the king and queen down to their children; the line split and extended horizontally for their two sons, but the bottom left corner of the page was completely torn out, and the oldest son was missing from the pedigree. It wasn’t a complete surprise—in the last year, the crown prince was said to have gone mad and disappeared. The younger son, Vincent Blackmoore, was there, smirking up at her with his light hair and blue eyes. Bridgette scrunched her nose in disgust; the smirk reminded her too much of Jack. She put the papers back in the book, then put the book back on the shelf.

She quickly walked back to the window and shut the curtains. Where was Lord Thornwood? He wouldn’t be happy if his food was cold. Bridgette exited the study and looked in the library, but it was empty. She headed the opposite direction and stopped in front of Lord Thornwood’s bedroom. She swallowed, then knocked. No one answered. Strange.

She continued down the hall and tried to listen for any noise behind any of the doors. Of course, there was nothing. Maybe he was in the room she wasn’t supposed to worry about. What harm could come with knocking on the door? She stepped up to the door and knocked. The door opened an inch in response to her knock. It wasn’t because someone opened it, but because it wasn’t shut all the way. “I shouldn’t,” Bridgette whispered to herself as she pushed the door all the way open.

It was not what she expected.

As Bridgette stepped into the room, she felt an instant chill. She folded her arms around herself and continued further into the room. It was not tidy like the rest of the manor. It was cluttered and unorganized. Every surface was covered in used canvases, tipped-over paint bottles, or dirty paintbrushes. Bridgette approached the closest table and studied the painting. It was dark and haunting, with a lurking figure in the thick mists of night. She looked around at the other paintings, which had a similar theme of unsettling darkness and impending doom. She pulled out a painting which had been stacked behind others. It was the face of a young, handsome man clutching one side of his face and screaming, pain and desperation evident in his uncovered eye.

“Get. Out.”

Her heart felt like it jumped to the ceiling. She spun around and faced Lord Thornwood in his dark, hooded cloak. “Lord Thornwood, I am so sorry. I came to bring your lunch and was trying to find you so it didn’t get cold.”

“Leave,” he said roughly.

Her defenses rose at the tone of his voice. “You—” she started and stopped. Remember what Mama said, Bridgette. Kindness. Be kind. She cleared her throat and started again. “I know I am not supposed to be in here, but I wanted to find you, and then I saw the paintings. Did you paint them? They are beautiful. I especially like this one,” she said, motioning to the screaming man.

Lord Thornwood stepped toward her and yanked the painting out of her hand. “Beautiful?” he spat. “You are a fool girl,” he said under his breath. Bridgette’s pride deflated a little at the words. “What else did you touch?” he asked with urgency. He paced around the room, as if searching for something.

“I touched nothing else, I promise,” she said as she watched him move things around. Soon he was holding a metal case with a latch that looked like it was made to hold paint supplies, but had seen better days with its dented side and broken handle.

Lord Thornwood turned his back to her and opened the case. His large frame blocked whatever was in it from her view. He slammed the lid shut and let out a relieved sigh. Bridgette blinked—she could have sworn she saw a flash of light, but it was gone as quickly as it came. He put the case in a cupboard gently and turned back to Bridgette.

Bridgette stood up straighter and smiled, even though she was sure he couldn’t see her face with that giant hood hanging so low over his.

“What do you want?”

“I-I asked you a question, my lord,” she said, trying not to let her fear get the best of her. Just think about Sir Raspberry and Mama, she said in her mind.

“What question?” he growled.

“Did you paint these?” she said, gesturing toward the room.

“Why do you care?”

“Because they are works of art and I am curious as to whose talented hand created them,” she said in a sharp tone to match his.

He spread his arms out wide, then let them fall in defeat. “Beautiful? Talented? Art? Did you get dropped on your head as a child?”

A giggle escaped her lips.

“You’re insane,” he said.

Bridgette got control of herself and said, “You know, that is not the first time someone has said that to me, but I don’t think my opinion of what is beautiful should qualify me for the nuthouse.” She laughed again.

“Then why are you laughing?” he asked in frustration.

“Because I just learned something about you,” she said with a smile.

“What?” he huffed.

“Compliments make you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t have time for this. Get out,” he said. Bridgette listened this time and exited the room. Lord Thornwood walked out of the room after her and made sure the door latched shut before he took off down the hall, cloak flowing behind him.

“Late for your brooding session?” she teased.

“What?” he grumbled over his shoulder.

“You said you don’t have time for this, and the only thing I have ever seen you do is brood in your dark study,” she said before she could stop herself. Reel it in, Bridgette. “Oh, wait! You were actually listening to what I was saying and don’t want your lunch to get cold.” Bridgette had to sprint to keep up with his long stride. Lord Thornwood entered his study and Bridgette followed after him.

He took a seat at his desk, but didn’t reach for his lunch. “Is there something you need?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

“Yes, actually,” she said and took a deep breath. “I obviously came back, but I would like to voice my concerns with you. I did not appreciate being yelled at when all I did was decide what portrait was hung in the entrance hall and laugh at Edgar’s funny joke.” She paused to take another breath, then continued. “I want to work here, and I am willing to work here if I feel safe and am treated with respect. I have things I need to work on as well, but it will be easier if you put forth effort too.”

“Fine,” he grunted.

“Really?” Bridgette asked in surprise.

“If I agree, will you leave?”

“Oh, um, yes,” she said.

“I will try not to let your actions lead me to yelling. Now, leave,” he ordered.

Bridgette sauntered toward the door and turned around. “She is the queen, isn’t she? The lady in the portrait.”

“Do you not understand what ‘leave’ means?” he said in a louder voice, over-pronouncing every consonant.

“So sorry,” Bridgette said and quickly closed the door. She hurried to the stairs and let out a flustered breath. She was an idiot, but at the same time, Lord Thornwood did not seem nearly as scary as she had suspected. Maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as she thought to show him kindness. A few ideas had come to her after her discoveries.

“I won’t give up, Mama,” she whispered, then went to find Edgar for her next assignment.