CWMBR 13

Chapter 13

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She couldn't have really left something behind, Ain thought, and yet it felt strange to see the room so empty, with no trace of her.

It had only been a few days at most since he had seen her in this mansion, and even then it hadn't been a long time, and of course it felt empty without the woman who was supposed to greet him here.

His gaze slowly traveled around the room, overcome with an indescribable emotion, until it settled on one spot: the spot he'd always seen Bridget standing in when he'd come to this room unannounced.

She was either standing or crouching in that awkward position. Again, it was an ambiguous spot. There were no chairs around, no fireplace nearby, so why was she always standing there?

Ain walked slowly over to where she used to stand. Stopping short, he looked around, but there was nothing special. It wasn't a good view out the window, and it wasn't near the warmth of the fireplace.

But she was always here. In the middle of nowhere.

"Ah, there you are."

Ain glanced up at the voice behind him. It was Declan, his legal representative. He was also the one who was representing him in the annulment case, the one Ain had been ranting about to Bridget. 

"Hello."

Ain nodded his head impassively, then shifted his gaze. He was focused on scrutinizing his surroundings.

"I came as soon as I received your telegram. Is what you wrote true?"

"If you mean that my wife seems to have been treated unfairly here, then yes."

"You mean .................. Mrs. Wise."

Ain raised his eyes and glanced at Declan.

"Yes. Mrs. Wise."

Declan clicked his tongue and rubbed his temple as he watched Ain with trepidation. He looked troubled and thoughtful for a moment, then furrowed his brow and asked.

"Is this unfair treatment something that will have a significant impact on the annulment suit you're preparing?"

"That's what I called you in to find out."

Ain replied in a nonchalant voice and strode away. He wandered around the place where Bridget’s suitcase had been placed and the bed, then went to the window and looked outside. His eyes swept the space, too dry to be searching for anything, but too thorough to be aimless.

Declan looked at him curiously, then shook his head. By nature, Ain was a man of his own steadfast opinions, and he usually never explained them to others. More important to Declan was the information he needed for his immediate case.

Having been thrust into this annulment case like a bolt from the blue, Declan hoped that everything would go smoothly and quietly. With the royal family's involvement publicized from the outset, a quiet conclusion was unlikely, but at the very least, the parties involved could avoid a messy, acrimonious battle.

In that sense, the telegram that his client might have some sort of culpability was very unfortunate news for Declan.

"I see. Where is your wife?"

"She's gone."

"What?"

"She's gone."

Declan stared at Ain's impassive side face.

If they'd been ten years younger, he would have slapped him across the back of the head for insanity. Seventeen-year-old Declan was not Ain's lawyer, and seventeen-year-old Ain was not an important client of Declan's, just an old friend.

Declan, holding back his simmering violence, calmly assessed the situation.

"And she left immediately after revealing that she had been treated unfairly?"

"She left without another word."

"She didn't bring it up with you, did she?"

These were Declan's first thoughts upon hearing the news.

From the outset, Ain's decision to file for an annulment had been quite impulsive and sudden. Mrs. Wise must have been embarrassed and wanted to drop the case. Common sense would dictate that no woman would want to make her marriage to Ain Wise something that never happened.

In that sense, any unfair treatment Mrs. Wise might have received could have been a good weapon in her arsenal. Whichever way she wielded it.

Declan therefore decided to meet with Mrs. Wise in person to calm her down, as she was 'probably' going to wield her 'weapon' with a lot of anger. Declan was a little nervous, as his previous encounters with Mrs. Wise had been less than favorable.

He was a little nervous.

But she wasn’t here?

"She didn't say anything."

Ain said again, as if to drive his point across. He glanced at Declan, who blinked dumbly, then lowered his gaze.

"I just found out when I got here."

The words sounded a little funny out loud, and Ain's brow furrowed slightly.

Just once.

One look and he would have figured it all out. A hostess’s room that had never been used, no maid assigned, too little food to fill a table, and the warmth of a mansion that was too cold.

It was a strange feeling. At least Ain realized that he was solely responsible for this. Bridget's life in the mansion was unjust. Neither their feud nor her reputation could justify it, and for that, at least, he had to make amends to her in some way.

Declan pursed his lips as if at a loss for words, then narrowed his eyes.

"Then why are you only now finding out about it..........?"

"That."

Ain's gaze shifted to the side of the fireplace.

There was a small desk and a stiff-looking wooden chair. A small bookshelf connected to the desk held a couple of books, but the way they were arranged, they looked like they'd been in the room from the beginning rather than something Bridget had left behind. On the corner of the desk was a black inkwell and quill pen.

Ain's eyes lingered on them as he answered.

"This is my first visit."

"Oh, this guy....................." 

Declan sighed, wiping his forehead.

"Looks like you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, though I'm not one to meddle in other people's domestic affairs, but it seems to me that this lawsuit is............... ha. I can't proceed without knowing the details of your marriage."

"There's no such thing as an inside story."

The few short months that Ain and Bridget had spent together had hardly been a marriage in the first place. Declan looked disturbed by Ain's answer, and finally pulled a cigarette from his pocket and asked a question. He felt like he might collapse from the stress if he didn't ask.

"What about the miscarriage, you said that could be a lie too? We need proof that Mrs. Wise's pregnancy was a lie, or if not that, at least proof that the child she was carrying was not yours."

Declan spoke rapidly, sucking somewhat frustratedly on a cigarette he had lit with a match, but Ain brushed his words aside and strode toward the desk. He seemed almost nonchalant about the subject that had caused him so much trouble.

Declan's eyes narrowed as he watched Ain's broad back.

"You wanted to do this because you had something, didn't you?"

Ain still didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out every book on the shelf, flipped through them, and picked up an inkwell to check its contents.

Declan frowned at his lack of cooperation, but as the silence lengthened, his resolve crumbled. Unsure of what to do, and yet overcome with a vague sense of unease, Declan cautiously called out to Ain.

"Ain?"

"I have a picture."

Thud.

Setting down the black inkwell, Ain spat out the words.

"A photo from that night."

Ain's hand touched the quill. The pointed tip was smeared with a black smudge.

"The night Bridget claimed she spent the night with me."

Ain glanced down at the nib, which showed signs of use.

Bridget had written to him periodically, strangely diligently, for a woman who was not so clueless as to not know that he was deliberately not writing back. Her letters had probably been finished on this desk. This nib would have produced Bridget's signature, that fluid, smooth handwriting.

But the quill apparently did not belong to Bridget. Perhaps it was a half-ornamental object, offered to guests at the mansion. As evidence, the quill was flimsy and the nib was cheap. The half-empty inkwell didn't even bear the name of the manufacturer. He wondered if the ink had been scavenged from a used bottle.

The room's owner must have used them diligently, but even that would soon harden into a hard, unusable waste as they had lost their owner.

Ain gritted his teeth and spoke in a cold voice.

"That woman in the picture was not Bridget."

With a snap, the tip of the quill he'd thrown down dripped with dried ink.

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