CWMBR 127

Chapter 127

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Ain entered the building only after the carriage carrying Bridget had completely disappeared from view.

Bridget in the carriage maintained her usual cold demeanor, yet she had inadvertently glanced at his abdomen. It seemed unintentional, but it had inadvertently elicited a hint of sympathy. As Declan had said, she wasn't the type to be harsh to someone in pain.

"Anyone would act that way, not just me."

Kindness to the sick came naturally to Bridget.

Such a mindset might be second nature to her, but not to Ain.

From the start, Ain had grown up under parents who found their sick child bothersome and troublesome. In his childhood, what he learned early on from his parents was this: 'If you get hurt or sick, you get shoved into some out-of-the-way place where no one can see you.' 

Relatives? They were the sort who, the moment Ain got sick, would immediately start calculating the fate of the entire list of assets slated for him. Friends? They'd use his physical condition as a weakness, scheming to find some way to turn it into future profit.

So to Ain, this injury held value only as a means to be exploited.

Click.

Opening the office door, only the silent air greeted him. Everyone seemed busy and out of their seats.

Regardless of the breakdown in his relationship with Bridget, Ain's office was now more properly furnished than when he first arrived. Fergus, as if foreseeing that his stay in Glynford would be prolonged—or perhaps anticipating that the office established there would become their headquarters—had ordered his entire desk moved over from his previous workplace.

However, everyone in this office knew Ain's state had been off for the past few days, so they avoided bothering him unless it was for something truly important. Fortunately, or perhaps not, those who had worked alongside Ahn for quite some time were capable of handling their assigned tasks independently.

This attitude intensified even more after Ain was stabbed with a knife a few days ago. Even Declan, who used to casually approach and jab at him with words now, had spent several days simply watching Ain quietly. As if by mutual agreement, everyone left Ain alone, and he, in turn, freely set aside his work. It was precisely this recent freedom that allowed him to react so swiftly upon hearing that Bridget had gone to Finn's lodgings.

"Where are you going?"

"The office."

"But you're injured..."

Bridget came to mind, her eyes filled with disbelief before she coldly looked away. Perhaps she thought he was obsessed with work. After marrying her and bringing her to that isolated mansion, the excuse he constantly used was how busy he was with work. How else could it be? The momentary look of disgust that twisted her face couldn't have been mistaken.

Ain plopped down at the desk. Contrary to Bridget's guess, he hadn't come to work.

Opening the bottom drawer of the desk revealed neatly stacked letters. Some were opened, some unopened, but they all shared one thing: identical envelopes and the same handwriting.

These were letters Bridget had sent during their brief marriage. He had never even read them, just carefully stored them away in the drawer. They had piled up to dozens.

Thanks to Fergus ordering the entire desk to be brought over, the collected letters also came into Ain's hands intact.

And Ain began opening and reading them one by one, starting sometime later. Doing this daily, he now found himself naturally opening the drawer first whenever he sat at the desk.

Bridget's letters were longer and far more detailed than he had expected. Undoubtedly, she had written them during a time when she was physically and emotionally exhausted from being mistreated by the servants at Breford Manor. Yet, not a single trace of that hardship was contained within the letters.

These neat letters described nothing but the unknown being growing inside her womb. From trivial details like the child's appearance at birth, hair color, and eye color, to larger aspects like the child's personality and intelligence.

Most were filled with vague imaginings and guesswork. Yet Bridget tirelessly filled the pages entirely with stories about the baby. The letters were saturated with traces of the life she cherished.

Within those desperate sentences, Ain faintly sensed her heart.

"You married me because I was pregnant. I did the same. I married you because I was pregnant."

Wasn't that statement utterly without a single false note?

She had never told a single lie from the very beginning.

"It truly pains me that only I saw the expression on her face when the pregnancy was confirmed."

Ain now understood. That Bridget was fundamentally different from his parents, or anyone else he had ever formed a lifelong bond with. Unlike his mother, who had casually terminated a pregnancy, Bridget was someone who would cherish and long for the child that had briefly stayed in her womb for the rest of her life.

"Since you never saw it, you will never understand."

Late into the night, Ain painstakingly deciphered what his stubbornness and arrogance had taken from him.

***

After handing the documents to Gilum and escorting Ain back to his office, Bridget headed straight for the post office. There, she sent a letter to the address of 'Mrs. Callaway' she had learned from Finn's lodgings.

What followed were days of waiting. She completely cut off her outings and secluded herself. A few days later, Finn himself came to her mansion and knocked on the door, but Bridget didn't even show her face. After visiting the mansion several times in succession, Finn, seemingly conscious of the royal investigators Gilum had stationed around the mansion, soon stopped coming.

Bridget held out. The time passed less tediously than she had expected.

"Now, like this here."

"Wow, my goodness. How on earth does that turn into that?"

Wayna gazed in awe at the fabric in Jane's hands. Jane had been moving a small stick back and forth, twisting thread, and in just half a day, a palm-sized rose had materialized.

Bridget was equally amazed. She looked down at the thread she'd been twisting just moments before. She'd started lace-making with clear intent, but her progress was painfully slow. It felt like she might circle endlessly in the same spot forever.

Not only was the fabric's form absent, but even the lace pattern itself wasn't properly formed, making it look like nothing more than a tangled ball of thread. As she stared down at the lace with troubled eyes, Jane smiled and chimed in.

"You're doing very well."

"……I think you misunderstand the meaning of 'doing well,' Mrs. Ottertz."

"No, you really are doing well! You're just a little slow. But that's only because you're not used to it yet, so it's fine."

Jane often had a tendency to see everything only positively. Seeing Bridget still sitting with a dark expression, unable to readily accept the encouragement, Wayna quickly chimed in.

"Madam, just look at me. I completely ruined an entire ball of thread!"

Bridget's gaze naturally drifted to the round ball of thread stuffed into the corner of the sofa. It was the result of Wayna’s enthusiastic attempt to learn lace-making from Jane, following Bridget's lead.

………well, I suppose this on my lap is better than that.

"Still, doesn't time fly when you're focused? Lace-making is actually quite good when your mind is cluttered."

"That's true."

Her skill was worse than that of the young nun she'd seen at the convent, but regardless of the outcome, wrestling with the thread itself was a decent distraction. Plus, it made time fly, so her secluded life wasn't boring at all.

The three of them were sitting around in the first-floor parlor, chatting and weaving lace, when someone pressed the doorbell.

Ding-dong.

Without a word, all three stopped talking. Wayna’s relaxed gaze instantly sharpened with alertness.

Ding-dong.

The unknown visitor pressed the bell again. Jane and Wayna approached the front door simultaneously.

"Who is it?"

Jane's cautious question was met with silence outside. Wayna’s face hardened with suspicion. Just as Jane, sensing the tension, was about to ask again, a low voice came from outside.

"Is this Madame Wise's residence?"

Jane tilted her head at the unfamiliar middle-aged woman's voice.

"I was invited."

"Ah."

Bridget rose as if she had guessed something. She strode briskly to the front door in just a few steps, her expression slightly tense. Wayna watched her with a worried look.

"Madame Wise?"

"She's right. I invited her."

Bridget gave Wayna and Jane a faint smile before calmly opening the door. A neatly dressed middle-aged woman stood on the doorstep. Beyond her, a splendid carriage stood in front of the mansion. And the shadow of the noblewoman seated inside.

As the front door opened, the middle-aged woman standing there began to speak. But before she could finish, the figure seated inside the carriage stepped down herself. This happened before the servant waiting nearby could even unfold the footstool. Without any escort, the noblewoman strode down and approached Bridget.

The noblewoman wore a cloche hat with a veil and draped an expensive-looking fur shawl over her shoulders. The black veil nearly covered her face, yet it couldn't conceal her piercing gaze.

Bridget, who had been staring intently at the approaching figure, calmly opened her lips.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation, Mrs. Callaway."