For Want of a Nail

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 26,161 (Part 1: 6,587)

Rating: T / PG-13

Summary: Sometimes it's the little things that make the biggest difference: a poorly made shoe, a missing ring…

Disclaimer: They're still not my characters. They are still my words.

Notes: The incident that launches this story was decided on back in January, long before Renée Z actually pulled a similar stunt with a pair of hot pink stilettos. I swear. It was inspired by my poor roommate tearing a calf muscle doing same.

This is sort of a continuation of the universe begun in several previous stories: "In Sickness And...", "The Scandal", "The Perfect Match", and even "The Prodigal Son". If you haven't read these, you shouldn't be too lost, though if you're feeling a bit lost, that would be why.

Friday

It was like losing the kingdom for want of a nail, or at least the want of a decently-made shoe with a good, well-fastened heel that didn't collapse whilst dashing into a zebra crossing to make the light. The end result of the snapping of said heel was a rather acrobatic tumble across two lanes of traffic, a painful landing, much fuss and bother and a ride in an ambulance.

While mindful of the worry she'd caused Mark in his getting a call to alert him that his wife was in Accident & Emergency, certainly Bridget didn't mind the attention he gave to her after she'd been released with a cast on her fractured forearm, a lovely hairline crack in her ulna.

This little accident came at a great cost, though: Mark insisted they postpone their summer holiday abroad and instead spend a couple of weeks at his parents' place in the country, to give her time away from real life to recover. Reluctantly she had to admit that the thought of touring the continent whilst on opiates for the pain was less than ideal, and so agreed to the stay.

"It's close enough to the city," he'd said, "that if we need we can take you to the doctor."

Not so much a kingdom as a dream holiday lost, but a loss nonetheless. She was thankful at least that she liked the Darcys, and they liked her.

"How are you feeling?" came Mark's voice into the haze of her slumber. She realised they were no longer moving, that they must have arrived at his parents'.

"Sorry?" she said, coming into full wakefulness.

"How's your arm?"

She looked down to the cast. "Still broken." She was thankful at least that it was her left arm; she could at least still, say, write in her diary.

He chuckled, leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry. Didn't want to wake you, but we're here."

"I gathered."

He released his seatbelt, then did the same for her. "Are you in need of more painkillers?"

"I am, but I'd rather have a glass of wine when we get inside."

He smirked. "Then by all means, let's get you inside."

They were greeted by Elaine Darcy, who pecked an affectionate kiss on Bridget's cheek then gingerly embraced her daughter-in-law. "I'm so sorry about your arm," said Elaine, "but Greece's loss is our gain."

"And France, and Italy," Bridget lamented. "It would have been more worth it if I'd had a better story to tell when people ask how I broke it."

"What, cartwheels across Oxford Street isn't a good enough story?" joked Mark. At the undoubted dirty look she gave to him in return, he immediately offered apologetically, "Let me get you a glass of wine, darling." He set down their bags and departed for the kitchen.

As they took seats in the front sitting room, Bridget said, "I'm so sorry we're imposing upon you on such short notice."

"Never you mind that," said Elaine. "You're family, and there's always room for family regardless of the notice. Besides, we're going to put you in the northern big room, so you'll have a little extra privacy, plus it stays relatively dark all day in case you find you need a nap."

A voice called from the foyer: "Elaine? Mark? Where am I putting the bags from the car?" It was Mark's father.

"Northern side, Malcolm," she called. "The big suite. Grab the other bags in the foyer too, if you can."

"Right. Got them." The women heard the footsteps retreating.

"If there's anything at all that you need, you just let us know," said Elaine, reaching over to pat Bridget's knee. "Oh! What's this writing on your cast?"

Bridget was certain she flushed crimson. Damn that Tom for making crude (yet blessedly abstract) drawings on her cast, his suggestion for the best shagging positions while her arm was recovering. "Oh, just a friend of mine doodling."

Thank God, His cherubim, seraphim and all assorted heavenly creatures above that Mark returned at that moment with a large wineglass brimming to the top with pale gold Chardonnay. "Thank you," she said desperately, trying not to gulp the thing down in all one swallow.

Malcolm appeared in the doorway, flush from his excursion up and down the stairs, to and from the room that would be theirs during their stay. "Mark, son," he said in greeting. "Bridget my dear. How are you? How's that arm?"

"I'm fine," she said, smiling. "Doesn't hurt nearly as much as it did at first."

"Good to hear. Have you all settled in upstairs, Mark knows the room. If you'd like to have a lie-down—well, I hardly need to say so, but make yourself at home."

She smiled, feeling the effect of the wine bloom through her body. "Thank you," she said. "I think I'd like that very much."

As Bridget got to her feet with Mark's unneeded but welcome assistance, Elaine said, "Now, I had completely forgotten that we've arranged to have supper with the Enderbys tonight, but not to worry, I've got something in the works for the two of you to eat later."

"Thank you, Mother."

"Don't exactly have pizza delivery in these parts, and you shouldn't have to cook for yourselves while you're here," added Malcolm.

She chuckled, feeling decidedly more squiffy after getting to her feet. "Thank you." For all of his bluster at times, Mark's father was very much a teddy bear. Hm, she thought with amusement; like father, like son.

As they scaled the stairs, Mark held his arm quite firmly about her waist. "Mark," she said, "I've broken my arm, not my leg. I'm perfectly capable of climbing the stairs on my own."

"I know," said Mark, "but you just had wine for the first time in two weeks."

As if the universe was mocking her, her foot went unsteady under her at that very moment and she listed to the side, right into him.

"As I was say—"

"Hush," she said. She heard him chuckle.

Mark knew that the room his mother had put them in was one that was not often used, in the northern end of the house that they usually kept closed in the winter months. He was very much looking forward to seeing Bridget's reaction to it. It was probably as large as the bulk of her old London flat.

Just as he suspected, her face fell as he opened the door and she saw the ivory and gold decorated bedroom, complete with four-poster bed, en suite bathroom and private balcony. "Mark, I know better than to think your parents would ever put us up in tatty accommodations," she said, "but this room… I'm speechless."

He couldn't help but chuckle.

"How come we haven't seen this room before?"

He explained, and she smirked. "What's so funny?" he asked.

"It's just a little weird to have been married into a family whose house has, you know, wings."

He laughed, pulling her close to him, feeling the plaster of her cast brush against his dress shirt as she embraced him in return. "Don't know if I've mentioned this lately," he said low into her ear, still grinning, "but I do so love you."

"You might have done," she said, tightening her embrace. "With the pills and all, though, the last two weeks have been a blur."

"Well. I'm happy to repeat myself on account of your fuzzy memory." He briefly kissed her, then pulled away to turn down the bed.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You said you wanted to nap," he said, befuddled.

"Oh, Mark," she said, shaking her head. "Never, ever break an embrace to turn down a bed, silly man." She grinned. "Have I taught you nothing?"

"On the contrary," he said. "You've taught me plenty. But you should rest."

"Lie with me?" she asked brightly. "I always sleep better if I know you're there."

He could hardly refuse, not that he wanted to. "Of course."

He helped her out of her trousers and shirt before divesting himself of his own. It was far more comfortable for her to sleep on her right side with the cast on her left arm, so he slipped in behind her to spoon up to her back. He pulled the covers up over them then slipped his arm around her waist.

She was sleeping, softly snoring, within minutes. He placed a kiss against the back of her head, and she snuggled further into him.

He didn't think he would actually be able to sleep but before he knew it, he was opening his eyes to see through the window that the sky had begun to darken. He stirred, realising that neither of them had even moved. His stirring caused Bridget to wake too.

"Is it morning?" she said muzzily.

"No, darling, it's evening."

"Oh, right." She stretched and turned over, deftly avoiding hitting him with her encased arm, to give him a kiss. "That was a lovely nap."

"It was. Slept like a rock."

"Me too." She raised the fingers of her right hand and combed them through his hair. "What do you suppose your mum has fixed for us?"

"Knowing her, something light and summery that doesn't require reheating."

"Mmm. So that means we could be a little lazy and lay here a little while longer."

"Well, I don't know for certain. Plus, I'm pretty hungry." He felt his stomach growl as if in agreement.

She chuckled. "All right, all right. Help me get dressed and we can go exploring in the kitchen." She pushed herself away to sit up and as she did so, she made a slightly pained sound. Mark knew what that meant; hastily he located her toiletries bag and the little cylinder filled with high-quality pain pills.

"Just a half," she called to him, cradling her left arm close to her body with her right. "You don't want to have to hold me down to this earth by a tether the rest of the night."

He chuckled, remembering how loopy she'd been the first few days after her accident when she'd needed to take a full pill. He snapped the white oval pill in half then palmed it, figuring she could take it with dinner.

When they got down to the kitchen, Mark found two covered plates in the enormous stainless steel refrigerator (he noticed Bridget smirking but trying desperately to hide it), each with a generous (and delicious-looking) Caesar salad with strips of chicken and mounds of fresh grated parmesan, as well as two heaping bowls of fresh berries. He handed her the half-pill then said, "Have a seat at the table. I'll bring it over."

There was a note tented on the counter in what he recognised as his mother's hand: "Housekeeper has been dismissed for the evening and she is off to town until Monday. Enjoy dinner… and the silence." He folded it into quarters and set it down.

"Is that from your mum?" asked Bridget from the table.

He nodded as he carried the plates over, then went back for utensils, then glasses of water. "Seems we have the house to ourselves," he said.

"Oh. Lovely."

As they ate, Mark said, "We could take a walk after dinner if you like, enjoy the fresh country air."

"I'd love that."

By the time they'd finished eating their salads and fruit she was beginning to look a little unfocused. He wondered if the walk was still such a good idea, and suggested they instead spend some time indoors.

"Oh, no, I'll be fine," she said, waving her right hand dismissively. "Miracle of modern chemistry. I feel great."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he said.

They took an abbreviated turn around the back park. The sun was very low on the horizon and casting golden hues upon the foliage. The air was fresh and while cooler than the temperature during the day, it was still warm enough to enjoy the outdoors in only a dress shirt.

After reaching the back patio once again, they paused to look at the expanse of the back park, he with his arm around her waist. She slipped her own around his—the cast-free arm—and held him tightly. He slipped into contemplation as his gaze skimmed across the horizon, over the tops of the tallest trees, to where birds were circling and the clouds were sparse and tinged with pink. There was a time he dreaded what the future would bring; in the past, the thought of inheriting this property seemed more of a burden than a joy, mostly at the prospect of living here alone in this massive house. Now, though, the prospect of spending his golden years here was decidedly brighter knowing he'd be doing so with his dear wife.

"I love it out here," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "It's so beautiful."

He looked down and found she was looking up to him at the same time, the last rays of sun finding the highlights of her hair, her blue eyes radiantly shining and a smile playing upon her lips. "Yes, it is," he said quietly. He turned, steering her towards the house, and as they walked he pressed a kiss into her silken hair. It still smelled of her floral shampoo. "Shall we head back up to our room?" he asked, slipping his hand down over her hip.

"Hm, don't know, not tired yet. I was thinking I might like to watch a little telly. Your parents do have one, don't they?"

Perhaps the opiates were clouding her ability to pick up on his signal that sleeping was not what he had in mind. Absentmindedly he said, "Yes, of course they do."

"Ooh, take me there," she said, squeezing his hip before stepping away from him.

He found that the lower rear sitting room had been converted into an entertainment room of sorts, the centerpiece of which was an enormous flat-panel television set. "Oh my stars and garters," she said. He stifled a laugh; it amused him when her usual lax verbal filters got even more so under the influence of her pain medication. "I think this is the largest telly I've ever seen in my life." She sat onto the sofa, picking up a remote control, then pushed the large red button that even he would have guessed meant 'power on'. Nothing happened. She pushed it again, then a third time, holding down as if continued pressure might make it wake up. Still nothing. "Um, Mark, do you know how to turn it on?"

It took fiddling with three different remotes before they got the thing to power on, and Bridget was like a kid in a candy store at the array of channels available to her. She located a movie she had been dying to see and bounced back into the cushions to watch; he resigned himself to a night of mindless viewing and settled in next to her, sliding his arm around her shoulders.

The movie was mostly over, the sun had set, when he felt her hand on his thigh. He turned to see she was looking at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Did you ever, you know, bring girls home?"

"What?" he asked again, at a loss.

"Bring girls home. Watch movies with them. Try to snog them on your parents' sofa."

"Wha—" he began, then realised another 'what?' would make him look like an imbecile. "No, no I didn't."

"That's a shame." She got up on her knee. "Want to know what that was like?" She then kissed him. Automatically he returned the kiss, sliding his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap.

He broke away, suddenly feeling the weight of his surroundings. "Bridget. We could just have gone upstairs as I suggested."

"Durr, Mark. I'm not completely daft, you know," she said with a smirk before straddling his lap and diving upon him with a kiss again. Her left hand settled peacefully behind his neck; her right, however, had very different ideas.

His hands were well entrenched beneath her shirt and were contemplating plunging beneath the elastic waistband of her cotton trousers when he heard the unmistakable sound of hard-soled shoes on the parquet floor of the foyer. From the sound of it, they were rapidly approaching. He tried to push her away, but she seemed determined.

Suddenly there was a voice at the doorway behind them, cementing his utter mortification, causing her to stop at last: "Good to know some things haven't changed, or aren't deterred by grievous injury."

She raised her head and looked over the back of the sofa, towards the door. Even lit only by the residual light of the telly he could see her flush almost purple. She then confirmed the identity of their discoverer. "H-hello, Uncle Nick."

"I was concerned when I heard you'd broken your arm, dear child," he said. "I see however that it hasn't slowed anything down one bit. Well. It's been a very long drive. Good night." Mark heard the footsteps retreat, the door closing and latching.

"Bridget," Mark said quietly after he was certain Nick must have reached the opposite end of the house. "If you were trying to let me in on some shared cultural experience of nightmarish proportions, I think you succeeded beyond your wildest dreams."

He felt her lips brush against his cheek, and he closed his eyes. Even amidst this complete humiliation she still had a devastating effect on his self-control. "He already thinks we're shagging on the sofa. And he closed the door."

"What are you saying?" he asked feebly as she placed her mouth upon his neck, drawing the skin there gently between her teeth. He had a feeling he already knew though, and her response proved him correct:

"We might as well finish what we've started."

Saturday

They had been able to slip up to their room before Mark's parents returned home from dinner with Una and Geoffrey. It had been bad enough to have been caught by Nick; it would have been utter mortification to have actually had his parents discover them in flagrante delicto. What had seemed such a good idea the night before now seemed to be more than Bridget wanted to ponder as they prepared to head down to breakfast, though to be fair, desire had a way of clouding one's rationale. In any case, she was kind of dreading heading downstairs.

She forced brightness into her voice as they entered the kitchen: "Good morning, Uncle Nick." He was at the counter, mixing what looked to be a batter of some variety.

"Good morning, my child." As she leaned in to peck his cheek as had become her custom, he added, "By the way, should you decide to continue your… excursions, I only ask that you spare my favourite chair."

She was sure she turned as bright red as a beet, was glad that Mark's parents hadn't made it to the kitchen yet. Mark thankfully intervened. "I'll be sure to steer us clear of it. What's that you're making?"

Bridget was rather surprised at his unflappable tone, and shot him a grateful look.

Nick replied, "Belgian waffles. Picked up some fresh berries in town, and a little whipping cream."

Bridget could only comment, "Oh my Lord. I'm going to plump up something fierce while I'm here." Mark chuckled, glancing down as he started to fix their coffee.

Elaine erupted into the kitchen looking rattled, and the minute Mark saw her he dropped the teaspoon into the mug and went over to her. "Mother? What is it?"

"Oh, I—" She hesitated. "I put my foot in it last night. I'm sorry."

"What?" asked Mark worriedly.

Elaine glanced to Bridget. "Well, Bridget, your mother and father were also there at dinner, and I'm afraid I mentioned your safe arrival. I didn't know…" She broke off.

Elaine didn't need to finish. Bridget knew the rest. She hadn't told her mother that they were staying with the Darcys for the two weeks they'd be there, because she knew the reaction Pamela was likely to have. It's not like there would have been any peace and quiet staying at the Joneses, not to mention the much tighter quarters, and her mother knew it, but it wasn't as if her mother had acted rational about this in the past. "It's all right," she said. "You couldn't have known."

Mark looked confused. "Known what?"

Bridget cast her eyes down. "I didn't tell her we were staying here."

Surprisingly, he laughed. "Oh, love." He went to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her cheek. "You should have told her but believe me, knowing your mother, I understand why you didn't."

"Hey," she said, feigning affront as she grinned.

"—As much as I love her," he added quickly. She distinctly heard Elaine chuckle.

Malcolm came in with two newspapers, setting one down on the table, open to the crossword, undoubtedly for Nick. "Morning," he said, smiling brightly. "Fine day for the fair."

"Malcolm," said Elaine darkly. "I haven't had a chance to tell them yet."

"Tell us what?" asked Bridget.

"Well, in trying to mollify your mother's hurt feelings, I… told her you'd be attending the street fair with us, and that she'd be able to see you there. I'm sorry."

"The what?" asked Mark.

"Are you sure you grew up here?" Bridget asked, amused. "That's all right," she offered to Elaine. "I'm sure we'll have a very nice time, and at least it will keep her from showing up here unannounced."

"Who wants strawberries, and who wants blueberries?" called Nick from his place at the waffle iron.

Mark had never actually been to one of the summer street fairs in Grafton Underwood, at least not that he could remember. His father had been right, though; the temperature was perfect, the sky was cerulean and peppered with dots of white downy clouds, and a lovely cool breeze passed through the cotton of his shirt and over his skin. He felt a little funny though, like a stranger in his own hometown; as they passed by small groups of people nearly every one of those groups had at least one person who had a smile and a wave for Bridget or stopped her for a short conversation. Conversely, Mark found himself at the receiving end of many a polite smile accompanied by the effort of placing him. As he introduced himself or was introduced by Bridget there were those who knew his name, either from one of his cases, or were friends of his mother's, but universally there was that undeniable furrowed-brow look of attempt at recognition.

As they strolled away from the latest conversational group, she tucked her unbroken arm through the crook of his elbow and leaned in close to him. "Are you positive you grew up here?" she asked again teasingly.

"I did go away to school fairly young," he said, his voice more defensive than he'd intended. He heard her chuckle. He decided to try to move away from the subject of himself. "So how is it that you know so many people?"

"Well, you know. Was friends with her daughter, went out with his son—" She looked up at him and surprised him with a giggle. "Oh, come on, Mark. That was when I was like eleven, when 'going out with' someone meant sitting at lunch with them." He wondered exactly what kind of expression had passed over his countenance.

"Bridget?" came another voice from somewhere in front of them, shaky and strained. Bridget looked towards the source and gasped.

"Oh my… Mrs Hase? Is that you?" She broke away from Mark and hopped over to a very old woman, rail thin limbs and pure silver hair, huge owlish glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, standing leaning heavily on her cane with her right hand. Gingerly she held out her arm and Bridget went to her to accept the embrace.

"I haven't seen you, my dear, in yons," said Mrs Hase. "And please, love, do call me Agnes." At that moment she seemed to notice the cast. "What happened to your arm?"

"Had a bit of an accident with a collapsing shoe heel while running, and I landed on my arm." Bridget grinned, then looked to Mark. "Agnes, this is my husband, Mark Darcy."

Agnes squinted. "Little Mark? Malcolm and Elaine's boy? My, how you've grown!" She extended her hand to him and he took it to shake it, afraid he might accidentally crush it, but she tugged forward, hinting that he was also supposed to give her a hug, which he did. Agnes was grinning almost wickedly when he stepped back again. "Oh, it isn't every day that a woman my age gets into the arms of a big, strong handsome man such as yourself, Mark. Nicely done, my dear," she said, turning back to Bridget. "Never really thought Theodore was good enough for you." She raised her left hand and caressed Bridget's cheek; Mark swore he saw Bridget flinch for a split second before her face became a picture of confusion, staring at the woman's hand. When Bridget spoke, she sounded a little discombobulated.

"Thank you, Agnes. Uh. How is Ted—er, Theodore?"

Agnes looked away. "Oh, he breaks my heart. Didn't become a doctor like I always thought he should have done. He came to visit last month but cut his visit short, disappeared without hardly a 'by your leave'—"

Bridget seemed to realise it was best at this point to steer the subject clear of Theodore, and quickly said, "I'm sorry to hear that. It was lovely to see you again, Agnes. Maybe I can drop by for tea during our stay here? We're here for two weeks."

The old woman brightened considerably. "Oh, Bridget, you're an angel. Always liked you best of all of Theodore's girls. I would love for you to stop by—don't bother with formalities, come when you like. I do get rather lonely. And Mark, you're welcome too."

"Thank you," he said politely. "It was very nice to meet you."

Agnes smiled. "A gentleman for sure," she said, more to herself than to either of them. "You two have a lovely day, enjoy the fair." She smiled, then began to walk off with a surprisingly rapid cadence given the cane and her age.

Bridget said nothing for many moments as they continued to stroll, not even after Mark took her hand into his own. "Bridget," he asked at last. "What's the matter?"

"That woman has had the most god-awful Victorian-era ring for as long as I've known her," she said, seemingly off-subject. "And every time I saw her she would pat my face affectionately with her left hand as she just did, and that bloody ring had an edge that would scratch against my face."

"Did it not scratch you this time?"

"It didn't, because she wasn't wearing it."

Mark looked to her. "So she wasn't wearing it."

"No, you don't understand. Her late husband Edward gave her that ring as a wedding present and she has never once removed it in the time that I've known her. She wouldn't take it off, even when I asked her to take a closer look at it."

"People change, Bridget," he said, rather pointedly.

"And Ted—Theodore—coming and leaving so quickly? Oh, Mark. I have to wonder."

He was afraid to ask. "Wonder what?"

"If he stole it."

He squeezed her hand—he loved her active imagination but sometimes it was a bit much to take. "I'm sure she just has taken to leaving it off because of her arthritis. Besides. I think she'd have done something about it had her son—"

Bridget interrupted: "Grandson. Ted's parents would be as old as mine if they were alive, thank you very much."

Mark chuckled, then corrected, "—Her grandson stolen her prized possession of a ring. Darling, I'm sure she has just locked it away for safe keeping. Look, here's a candy stand. Would you like raspberry or orange chocolate truffles?"

It was a risk, attempting to distract her with chocolate, but a risk he was willing to take; she was going to either enthusiastically choose truffles, or scold him for attempting to so transparently get her off the subject. Thankfully it was the former. "Ooh, both please. I love these."

He bought her a little box of four very decadent-looking truffles with cocoa dusted over the top. She fished one out and took a bite. "Oh. The best, anywhere. Thank you." She surprised him with a quick kiss and if not for their location he might have insisted on a longer one; something about the chocolate flavour of her lips was very enticing.

"Bridget!" came another, more staccato voice, this one instantly recognisable as Pam Jones'. Mark turned to the side to see Bridget's mother beaming a smile. "You two, always so sweet together; I knew it was meant to be—though I am very cross, very cross, that you didn't tell me you were staying here in Grafton Underwood for your holiday!" she said, her tone changing from sweetness and light to peeved and petulant in an instant. Bringing up the rear was Bridget's dad, smiling sheepishly. "Daddy says he knew! Now why would you tell Daddy and not me?"

I can't imagine, Mark thought with some amusement, trying very hard not to roll his eyes or otherwise look disrespectful.

"I'm sorry, Mum; I was sure I had," she said, shooting what he guessed was a conspiratorial look to her father. "The pain meds… sometimes I don't know if I'm coming or going."

This seemed to ameliorate her hurt feelings. "Well, darling, no real harm done, though you could have just as easily stayed with us," she said a slight edge of resentment to her voice.

"Mum, the Darcys have—"

"I had already asked my mother and secured the arrangements before I told Bridget," he interrupted his wife to say before she could point out the size difference in the houses of their respective parents.

She didn't look completely satisfied, but Pam Jones seemed to forgive Mark a lot more easily than she forgave her own daughter, so he was willing to step in and take the proverbial bullet with his little white lies. "Well, I'm sure you'll come by for dinner once or twice, hm?"

"If Bridget's up to it," said Mark. "She still has a good deal of pain, some days."

The look that Bridget turned upon him was so filled with love and adoration he had to fight grinning back in return. "Yes, yes," she said quickly. "Today's a good day, but I can feel the pain med wearing off. I'm sure we'll have to go soon. This is the most up-and-around I've done since the tumble-over." As if to underscore her fatigue, she sighed heavily.

Her mother turned instantly (and surprisingly) maternal. "Poor darling. Yes, of course, get on back to your room and have a lie down. Mark, take her back, will you?"

"Of course," he said absently, suddenly taken with the idea of feeding her more chocolate.

Her father came forward to peck her cheek. "See you later, my dear," he said, before gathering his wife around the waist and herding her towards a group containing other Grafton Underwood hens. When he heard one of them call out for Bridget's mother, Mark knew they were in the clear.

"I'm glad we brought separate cars," said Bridget once the flock of hens was well out of earshot, "because my obligation to my mother has been satisfied, and truffles aside, I think I have had quite enough of the street fair." She smiled wanly up to him. He realised that the fatigue must have been real, and he slid his arm around her shoulder and directed her back to the car.

They passed Elaine on their way back to the car, who simply nodded and smiled, implicitly understanding they were heading back to the house.

Once there, they headed straight up for their room, because Bridget seemed tired enough that a lie down was sure to follow. When she put the other half of that truffle into her mouth though, all was lost; he could not help but kiss her afterwards, which inevitably led to a delay in napping.

When Bridget awoke from her nap, she smiled at the memory of the lovely shag they'd just had, then frowned. Had the street fair been a dream? She glanced to the nightstand where the little white paper bag containing three truffles sat, its top hanging open like a gawking mouth, so no, she really had been to the fair, really had seen Agnes, really had not been raked across the face by her ugly, ancient ring. Mark had done well to distract her from her thoughts, but she could not help feeling that something was amiss.

Thinking of Mark, she realised he was not beside her, but as the light was on in the loo she figured he'd be back momentarily. She laid back down on the pillow just as the door to the bathroom swung open again. "Hello, sleepyhead," he said. "Have a nice nap?"

"Mmm. Yes. Didn't guess you were that fond of chocolate," she said, smirking.

He chuckled.

Just after dinner Nick invited Mark and his wife to join him on the back patio for a shot of scotch, and he accepted on their behalf, even though Bridget had taken another full painkiller and couldn't join in a drink (as much as she tried to wheedle a glass of Chardonnay out of him).

Under the darkening sky, Nick leaned on the railing with his tumbler in his hand and asked, "Hope you had a pleasant time today at the street fair."

Mark was similarly leaning with his own tumbler, staring out across the landscape, the evening stars just starting to make their appearance. "We did."

"Mark bought me chocolate," offered Bridget from Mark's other side, her arm around his waist.

Mark heard Nick chuckle. Bridget leaned into Mark and before he knew it she had swung her legs up and over the railing to sit on the edge of it.

"Bridget," Mark said dangerously, "get down."

"I'm fine, I'm steadier sitting here anyway, and I've got you to lean on."

Rather than pull her bodily down, he slipped his left arm around her waist.

"And oh! I saw Agnes Hase!"

Inwardly, Mark groaned.

"Agnes?" asked Nick. "Edward's widow? I hadn't realised she was still, um, with us," he finished tactfully.

"Yes, and you know what? Her ring's gone."

Mark glanced to Nick, hoping without words to discourage him. It didn't work. Defeated, Mark lifted his scotch glass and downed the shot, hoping to fortify himself against the assault to follow, then handed the glass to Nick to set it down on the empty area of railing.

"Ring? Are you talking of that giant Victorian monstrosity she wore everywhere?"

"Yes!" she said enthusiastically. "I knew I wasn't mad. It's gone."

"Did she tell you she'd been mugged?"

"Well, no."

Nick looked to Mark, a wry smile twisting his lips. He knew what that meant: he was humouring her.

"She has been a widow for a lot of years, Bridget."

Bridget launched into a similar diatribe to the one he'd heard earlier. "She never, ever took it off," Bridget insisted, leaning forward for a better view of Nick. Mark clenched his arm more tightly around her, adrenaline shooting through his system, attempting to tug her back. She resisted. "Never. I'm really worried that it's gone."

"There are many plausible reasons that her ring would be off of her finger. Maybe she's developed bad arthritis. Maybe she's afraid she'll lose it and decided to put it into storage. She is rather old, you know."

"That is exactly what I said. Bridget, get down from the railing."

"No," she said rather peevishly. "I don't care how many years Edward has been dead. She. Did. Not. Take. It. Off. Ever."

"You're being silly," said Nick.

"Silly?" she said shrilly. "If she loved Edward like I love Mark, she'd never take it off. I know I won't after Mark's gone, even if I did decide to—" She stopped speaking quite abruptly.

"What?" Nick asked amusedly.

Mark knew, even without the benefit of full light, that she had turned bright crimson.

"—find a shag-mate," she finished, then clarified, presumably for Nick's sake, "Take a… lover."

Mark stared at her, his mouth agape, momentarily loosening his hold, and she wobbled as she sat. He instantly caught her. Nick, however, laughed out loud.

"Well, I don't think I could go on as long as old Agnes has without sex," she said in a voice she probably thought was confidential. "I love you, Mark, but I am only human."

To Mark's further dismay, he heard his mother's voice behind them advise her own opinion: "I'm with you, Bridget."

Bridget went silent. "Was that your mum?" she asked Mark.

"Yes it was."

"Did I say that really loudly?"

"Yes you did."

Mark caught a glimpse of Nick, of his mother, both with huge grins on their faces.

She was silent again for many moments. "Can you help me down?"

Elaine appeared to Bridget's left. "Don't leave on my account, dear. What was that about Agnes?"

"Oh!" Embarrassment apparently forgotten, she turned to face Elaine. Mark was thankful he had tightened his grip on his wife's waist again. "Agnes! Did you see her? Did you notice her ring was missing?"

"Not on her hand," clarified Mark.

Elaine looked thoughtful, then alarmed. "Now that you mention it, you're right. She didn't have it on. How peculiar. Of course, seeing her out and about without her nurse is unusual enough…"

"See?" Bridget said smugly, turning to the doubting males. "See?" She turned back to Elaine. "She mentioned Ted coming to visit but leaving abruptly. Is Ted often in Grafton Underwood?"

"Yes," she said confidently, then faltered. "Well. He hasn't been around as frequently as he had been. I do remember Agnes mentioning his rather hasty departure on his last visit…"

Mark thought if he tried hard enough, he could will his mother into silence. It did not work.

"I knew it, I knew something was wrong. Mark, we're going for tea tomorrow."

"At Agnes'?"

"At Agnes'."

"What are you getting at, Bridget?" asked Elaine. "What has Ted to do with this? He's a very fine man, Ted is."

"Nothing," said Mark. "Bridget just has a slightly overactive imagination."

She turned to retort but lost her balance and if not for Mark's hold on her, she surely would have landed on her head. Instead she landed in his arms, and he pulled her down off of the railing. "Come on. It's time to get you into bed," said Mark, swatting at her backside.

Bridget snorted with a laugh and said, "Oh, after that? You wish," before heading back into the house.

Elaine and Nick both stifled their chuckles. Mark made a point to disallow her full pain pills in future.

As he was about to follow his wife in departing the patio, Elaine leaned in close, patting Mark's back. "Don't look so horrified, son," she said gently. "Bridget is just the sort of spark of life the Darcy family needs."