For Want of a Nail

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 26,161 (Part 2: 7,179)

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.


Sunday

"Bridget. Are you going to sleep all day long?"

Mark's voice penetrated Bridget's sleepy haze and she turned over, momentarily forgetting about her cast, which she rolled over onto. "Ow."

"It's nearly eleven."

"Ohhh," she said. "Why did you let me sleep so long…? I didn't want to sleep all day."

"That's why I've come to rouse you."

Bridget raised her hand to her head, still feeling a little woozy and sleep-drunk. If not for Mark she probably would have still been sleeping at tea time. "Do not let me have any more whole painkillers. Please."

Mark chuckled quietly. "Do you remember what you said on the patio last night?"

The previous evening came back to her in a rush, and she half-wished she couldn't remember. In her horror she pulled the covers up over her head. "Oh, what I said in front of Uncle Nick, and ohhh, especially your mother. I'm mortified."

"For what it's worth, she thought it was very amusing." He sat on the bed beside her, smirking insufferably. "You know what they say. 'In Vicodin veritas'."

"Oh, shut up," she said with a pout from beneath the sheets.

"If that's the way you want it," he said, still good-naturedly, "I guess I'll have to sit in silent penance instead of helping you with your shower."

She flung back the covers, looking to him. With the broken arm, she didn't really get to take a long, hot shower every day; it was just too time-consuming with having to waterproof the cast. "Shower?"

He raised his eyebrows, his lips pursed firmly together.

She sat up. "Mark. Don't tease me. Are you going to help me take a real shower?"

Still he said nothing.

She scrambled to her feet, stripping off her pyjamas, the edge of the sleeve catching momentarily on the cast. "I would murder for a nice hot shower. Please, please, please… tell me you'll help me," she said, pushing her pants hurriedly off.

Breaking his silence, he said, barely disguising his amusement, "I had no idea thoughts of a shower would get you out of your clothes faster than I could."

Playfully she stuck her tongue out.

"Promises, promises," he said, shocking her, "but first: your shower."

Perhaps it was the fresh country air combined with the love of his silly wife that was causing such saucy behaviour in him, but Mark thought that if he couldn't be saucy with her, he didn't stand a chance with anyone else.

He also knew he had to tone it down for tea with Agnes.

She'd chosen something uncharacteristically traditional for their outing, something she'd brought on the off-chance they were invited to a dinner party. It was a pretty dress but unfortunately riddled with tiny buttons to fasten, and there was no way she could fasten them herself behind her back, even with two working arms.

"Mark, could you step it up a bit? I still have to finish my makeup," she said, turning her head to look over her shoulder at him.

"I'm going as quickly as I can. These buttons are a nightmare." He didn't have fat, stubby fingers by any means, but even these were a challenge for him. "How do designers expect women to dress themselves, even without a broken arm?" He finished the last one, then pulled her hair back behind her shoulders. "There." She turned to face him. "Very lovely."

She always seemed incredulous that he lavished such words of praise upon her; when their relationship was new it was as if she might have thought he was only saying these things to get her into bed, and after they were married, that she thought he was saying them because he was obliged to, neither of which were true. "Thank you," she said, smiling almost shyly.

He grinned. "You don't have to act like you don't believe I'm sincere," he teased.

She turned pink. "Right now I feel like I'm a giant hunk of plaster and an invisible body."

He chuckled. "I'm always sincere."

"And you never lie."

"Not when it comes to you, no."

"Do you mean to say you lie otherwise?"

"I refer you to the conversation I had with your mother yesterday to spare her feelings."

"Touché." She grinned, then headed into the bathroom.

Within twenty minutes they were heading down the drive. Bridget directed him to Agnes' home, a lovely, respectable place he'd seen many times before, not nearly the size of his own parents' (few were), but slightly larger than the Joneses'.

The property was surrounded by a beautiful stone gate and the yard was obviously well tended to, with an immaculately groomed lawn and topiary lining the front walk. She raised her hand and rang the bell at the front door, and was just about to do it again when the front door swung open to reveal an older woman, probably mid-forties, dressed in a white nurse's uniform tunic with fine blue pinstripes and blue trousers, hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. "May I help you?" asked the woman.

"Does Mrs Hase still live here?" asked Bridget tentatively.

"Yes," replied the woman. "And you are…?"

"I'm Bridget, and this is Mark. Darcy. She asked us to stop by for tea."

"Oh!" She smiled, though she looked a little surprised. "Please come in." She stepped back to allow them in. "I'm Mariah. Mrs Hase's nurse."

"Is something wrong?" Mark asked.

"You'll forgive me," said Mariah. "When Mrs Hase told me she was having company I thought it was just another one of her…" She stopped. "You know," she finished quietly.

"I'm afraid we don't know," said Mark.

"One of her stories," Mariah said with emphasis. "We're having company most days, according to her, when we don't."

"Ohh," said Bridget, more sympathetic than concerned.

"I'll show you to the sitting room. She's been in there reading." She led them to the sitting room, and when the three of them appeared in the doorway, Agnes looked up, and she beamed with a smile, setting down her book.

"Bridget! What a lovely surprise! Come on in, have a seat. You'll forgive me if I don't stand."

Mariah said, "I'll go fix some tea," then departed from the room.

"How lovely to see you, my dear!" said Agnes as they took a seat on the sofa. "I'm so glad to see you. It's been far too long. And who's this fine looking fellow?"

Mark turned to Bridget, who looked a little taken aback but was good enough not to show it too overtly. "This is my husband, Mark Darcy."

Mark was struck with an incredible sense of déjà-vu as he watched Agnes' face light up with recognition then heard her say, "Malcolm and Elaine's little Mark? My, you've grown into a very handsome young man. Never did think Theodore was the one for you, Bridget. I'm sure if Edward were here with us right now, he'd agree. Dearest Edward." As she wistfully concluded speaking, she patted her left hand—as if to pat her beloved old ring, Mark thought, which he was sure did not escape Bridget's notice.

"H—How is Theodore?" began Bridget uncertainly.

"Oh, he breaks my heart," said Agnes sadly. "Didn't become a doctor like I'd hoped he would. And then cuts his visit short with no explanation…"

It was very obvious that Agnes had absolutely no memory of their meeting the day before, which only strengthened his belief that she probably had locked it up for safe keeping knowing her memory was failing.

Momentarily, Mariah brought the tea and a plateful of little shortbreads, and conversation moved to small talk regarding the excellence of the tea blend and the perfect buttery flavour of said biscuits. As they sipped their tea they lapsed into silence; the only sound for many moments were the clinks of the china cups meeting their saucers again. This was followed shortly thereafter by Agnes' soft snoring.

Mariah crept in, an apologetic look upon her face, motioning that the two visitors should leave the room with her. As soon as they reached the doorway, Mariah explained quietly, "I'm so sorry. She always falls asleep after tea and biscuits, out like a light. I'll let you out."

As they passed down the hallway again, Bridget glanced around herself with a nostalgic look on her face. "Everything's like I remember it, like it's been frozen in time. Oh! Except…" She'd stopped in front of a shelf display with many antique-looking items, then prompted Mariah to stop. "Do you know what happened to the little mirror that used to be here?"

"Mirror?" asked Mariah.

"Yes, a little tabletop mirror, all scrolly and Art Nouveau. Beautiful little thing. Used to sit right about here," she said, pointing.

"Ma'am, there's never been a mirror on this shelf. I can't recall seeing a mirror like that one anywhere in the house, really."

"Huh," said Bridget. "I must be thinking of someone else's house." Mark knew this was not at all the case, fully expecting to hear all about it when they got outside.

He was not mistaken.

"Mark!" she said in quiet exasperation, as if Mariah could hear them conversing all the way at the car. "I knew it! I knew something was wrong. The ring and the mirror are missing!"

"Bridget, you have no idea how long that mirror's been gone. You haven't been to the house in a very long time. And I still think the ring's been put away for safe keeping for its own good. You saw her—she didn't remember our meeting from just yesterday. She clearly has difficulties with her memory."

"Obviously! So that makes it easy for Ted to take advantage of her. For all we know he could be visiting every weekend and walking out of there with an armful of valuables."

"I think the nurse would surely notice."

Bridget pursed her lips and shot him a look as they seated themselves in the vehicle, and she didn't say another word the length of the drive.

They pulled into the driveway of his parents' house, and he parked the car, then switched the engine off before turning to her to ask, "Why are you so convinced he would be stealing from his grandmother, anyway?"

To his surprise, she lowered her eyes and didn't answer, not really. "It just seems odd, the sudden departure. Suspicious."

He chuckled. "Sometimes people have to drop everything for an emergency, as I'm sure you're aware. Come on, let's go in the house and get you into some proper holiday lounging clothes."

Before they could make progress back to the room, they encountered Elaine with a pitcher of lemonade, Malcolm carrying a tray of drinking glasses and Nick with a plate full of chocolate chip biscuits. "Oh! You're just in time," said Malcolm. "Come on out and have a glass of this cherry lemonade Nick's whipped together. Another perfect summer day and Bridget, you look absolutely lovely."

Bridget smiled. "Of course we'll join you." Mark was once again very thankful that his parents liked this wife so very much.

They convened upon a table in the back garden, one which a marquee had been erected over for the summer months. They sat beside one another and were each handed a glass of lemonade and three biscuits apiece.

"Delicious," said Bridget with a grin, then bit into a biscuit, a large smudge of chocolate landing on her upper lip and she giggled, licking it off. He drank from his own glass and while a little sweeter than he was used to, he had to concur that the lemonade was very refreshing and the biscuits very tasty, especially so since they were still warm. He remembered what Bridget said about plumping up while they were here, and he vowed to watch what he was eating more closely after finishing off this particular snack.

The whole Agnes business seemed blessedly forgotten until his mother asked, "So how was tea with Agnes?"

Bridget's eyes grew wide. "Oh, I'm worried about her. She didn't remember our meeting at the street fair yesterday."

"She is getting on in age," said Malcolm. "Must be in her nineties by now, I should think."

"And I think…" she began before her voice dropped down to a conspiratorial tone, "I definitely think someone's stealing from her, right under her nose."

"Bridget, don't be coy. You think her grandson is stealing from her," said Mark.

Malcolm said in surprise, "Theodore? He's such a fine, upstanding man. Visits so frequently, dotes on her." Elaine nodded.

"Bridget believes this based on the fact that she isn't wearing her ring, pats her hand as if it were there. That and a mirror isn't where Bridget saw it last half a lifetime ago," Mark said, suddenly feeling rather irritable.

Nick offered, "Old Agnes is probably suffering from senile dementia—the ring could be anywhere and she wouldn't remember having taken it off."

"Exactly."

"And considering her grandson is Ted Llewellyn, I'd seriously doubt he'd need to resort to robbery to make ends meet," Nick said drolly.

Mark blinked rapidly, thankful he had not taken another sip of lemonade. 'Theodore', the suspicious grandson who broke his grandmother's heart by not becoming a doctor and who Bridget alleged must have stolen her property, was Ted Llewellyn, brilliant estate lawyer with aspirations of the judicial bench in his future.

"That settles it," Mark said tersely. "Bridget, you'll stop this nonsense about Ted and the 'missing' property at once."

She looked up to Mark, the tail end of a biscuit protruding from her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and said in a challenging tone, "Is that an order?"

Irritatedly he said, "Don't be ridiculous. Tarnishing someone's reputation like this with idle speculation is nothing to trifle with."

"'Ridiculous'. Right." She stood, drank the last of her lemonade. "Thank you for the snack, Uncle Nick. Malcolm, Elaine, excuse me. I'll be inside." She then stalked away from the table and through the double French doors into the house.

He felt the muscles of his jaw tense then loosen.

"Mark," said Malcolm. "I think you owe your wife an apology."

He knew his father was right. While that girl could be damnably frustrating, the last thing he'd wanted to do was say such things to her in front of his mother, father and uncle. Additionally, the moment he'd uttered the words he did he'd regretted them because he was inexorably reminded (as he was sure she was) of the row they'd had just after the Law Council dinner so many months ago. He nodded and was about to get up and leave when he heard a man's voice call from the back patio.

"Hallo!"

It was Bridget's father.

"Colin! Come and join us for some lemonade and biscuits."

"I'm sorry I'm early," he said, taking the seat Bridget had just vacated.

"That's okay. We're always glad to see you. Pam's not joining us?"

"She heard the word 'fishing' and decided to take Una up on an offer of card games with Mavis and Penny." He took a swig of lemonade. "Is Bridget all right? She looked a little peaked, said she was going for a lie down." He had concern written into every line on his face, was directing that concern pointedly at Mark.

"I was just about to follow her up," Mark said.

He saw his mother give him an approving look just as Nick's disapproving look disappeared.

He stood and walked to the house, scaling the stairs that would take him to their suite, feeling slightly like a man headed towards the gallows.

When he opened the bedroom door, he suddenly felt anything but doomed; he was greeted by the sight of Bridget trying to wiggle out her still-buttoned dress, which she had tried to pull up over her head. Unsuccessfully.

He desperately fought back laughter. He was already in the doghouse and didn't need to make things worse.

"I was just coming up to—" he began.

"Mark, I want to be alone," stated a voice from the depths of her upside-down dress.

"—apologise and help you get that off," he finished. He was glad she couldn't see him pursing his lips to hold back a smirk. She would have smacked him on the arm—or worse.

She stood near the edge of the bed, her mismatched forearms protruding from the top. "I'm fine," she said petulantly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to sound so autocratic down there. But I know what it's like to be under that particular microscope without credible, substantial evidence."

Her arms lowered as she bent over, grasping desperately at the fabric of the dress to continue trying to pull it off. "I know you do and I'm sorry. But she's so old and I don't care who Ted is now, I don't think I'm completely off-base…"

"Bridget, please," he said testily, his jovial mood losing whatever ground it'd gained. "Enough with this line of enquiry. I mean it. And let me help you out of your dress, for God's sake." He reached for the hem and tugged upwards, revealing more of her bare midsection and the lower half of her satin brassiere, but she quickly turned away, which jerked the dress out from between his fingers.

"I'll do it myself," she snapped.

The lovely sight of her bare skin was not enough to quell the exasperation he felt, and he pushed impatient air out from between his teeth. "Fine. I'll be outside." He stalked towards the door, and with one last look back over his shoulder at her hunching, dress-enveloped form, he left the room.

He had thought it before and he would think it again: she could be beyond maddening. He knew she was headstrong but her insistence in passing unfounded judgment on a man as well-respected as Ted Llewellyn was beyond the pale.

His mother was still under the marquee when he got back down to the garden. She had leaned back into the chair and sat up abruptly as he approached, making Mark think with welcome amusement that she must have nodded off. "Colin, Nick and your father have already headed down to the lake," she said suddenly. That was a misnomer; it was actually more of a large pond, but they'd been calling 'the lake' ever since he could remember.

"Thank you."

Before he had a chance to step away again, his mother asked, "Everything all right?"

"Fine," he said. It was not convincing.

"Mark. What's wrong?" Elaine said in a much lower tone.

He looked to the sky, sighing. "I love her but she can really test the limits of my patience at times."

He did not need to say who; Elaine knew at once. "We all know you do, Mark, and I think that's why you do. But I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well…" he began unsurely. "You could go upstairs and see if Bridget's managed to get that dress off from over her head." Elaine's eyes widened ever so slightly. "She tried to pull it off before I got upstairs without unbuttoning it and wouldn't let me help, and the thought of her up there with the dress up over her head for the rest of the evening…"

Elaine covered her mouth to hide the smirk he knew was there. "Of course, my dear." She rose to her feet, placed her hands on his arms, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "Go on out and see if they've landed supper yet," she teased.

He got lakeside to find Colin Jones standing on the shore next to a tackle box and smoking a cigarette, while Nick and Malcolm were standing about three meters out with tall wellies on, their lines cast out into the water that was deeper than their calves. Bridget's father and Mark exchanged glances and nods of acknowledgment, then stood in comfortable silence for some time.

"How'd it go, then?" Colin asked.

"What?"

"Upstairs with Bridget. She having her lie down?"

"Presumably," Mark said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

After another puff on the cigarette, he asked, his voice decidedly more paternal: "Is everything all right? I saw the pout, felt the tension…"

Mark chuckled despite his lingering annoyance. "It's nothing serious, Mr Jones. Bridget's just being a little absurd, making a mountain out of a molehill again."

"Mark, you're married to my daughter. You should feel free to call me Colin." He smiled, looking down. "And yes, she can be very good at that. What this time?"

"Old Mrs Hase isn't wearing a ring she always used to wear, a mirror's not where it used to be twenty-some years ago, and suddenly her grandson's thieving her out of house and home."

Instead of the grin or light laugh he expected this to garner, Colin instead looked very gravely unsettled. "That might not be as absurd as you think."

Mark blinked. He knew Colin Jones to be a fairly level-headed man, and to hear him say this took Mark aback. "Why?"

He cast his gaze out over the water, and when he next spoke, his voice was much quieter, the better to keep his words from drifting along the surface of the water. "When Bridget was fourteen and very keenly 'going out' with this boy Ted two years her senior, I heard that he had a bit of a drug habit and that he had taken to petty theft to pay for it. Skunk, I think it was, but I didn't want to wait for it to progress to the harder stuff, or for her to get roped into the drug culture and become addicted herself, as impressionable as she was. I put my foot down and forbade her from seeing him again, one of the only times she and I ever had a shouting row; that is, until I explained to her why I didn't want her to see him." He turned to face Mark again, looking momentarily sheepish. "I… might have gone a bit overboard with hyperbole regarding drug use…. Anyway, Pam wasn't home, thank goodness, and I've never told her, though I did bring it to the attention to the boy's parents, who were still alive then." He sighed. "They sent him off to school in parts unknown. Maybe he's on the straight and narrow now—I know the boy at least comes back to visit his granny on occasion—but I can certainly understand Bridget's suspicion."

Mark was stunned. Ted the judicial hopeful had a sordid past with illicit drugs and theft? "Why didn't she just tell me this?"

"That you'll have to ask her."

Mark felt an overwhelming sense of remorse. Quietly he said, "I'd better head inside."

Colin nodded.

Mark made good time getting back up to their suite, where he found Bridget had been practically tucked in by his mother for a nap; Bridget was turned away from the edge with the covers pulled up high. He sat down beside her on the bed. She didn't stir, but he knew she wasn't sleeping by the rhythm of her breathing.

"It would seem I would have done well to remember the other very valuable lesson my fifteen minutes of scandal-ridden fame taught me," he began in what he hoped was a very contrite voice, "when someone I thought I could trust, someone who was a friend, was revealed to be anything but. I should have remembered that the appearance of good may not always be what it seems to be."

She stirred, turning towards him very slowly, her eyes peering out just over the edge of the covers.

"Your father told me about Ted."

"Oh," came her muffled voice.

"And I'm sorry for even tangentially accusing you of being ridiculous or of overreacting. Honestly though… why didn't you just say something?"

"It isn't important."

"Not important?" He pulled the sheet down to reveal her entire face. "Bridget, tell me."

"You'll think it's stupid."

"Try me."

She looked away. "I was embarrassed."

"You were embarrassed?"

She nodded.

"To admit my father forbade me from seeing a boy…"

Mark chuckled. "I thought that's what parents did."

"It's the biggest argument I've ever had with my dad, the sternest he's ever been with me. It made me cry afterwards for hours. But it was a big lesson, a painful lesson, for teenaged me."

His hand slipped down to caress her face. "Sometimes parents are right even if the reason isn't always immediately obvious."

She nodded. "Especially since I, um, didn't stop seeing him."

"Bridget," he said, immediately regretting the stern tone.

"Oh, you don't have to sound like that," she said. "Obviously I did eventually stop. I realised he was not treating me the way I wanted to be treated, and he treated his grandmother even worse."

"It's to your credit that you did what was right despite your pride," he said, hoping to continue to soothe her ego.

"And…" she said, hesitating, "he confided quite proudly to me that he had nicked a thing or two from her to sell for money."

"Darling, I think things have changed substantially," said Mark, even as the revelation that Ted had previously boasted that he had stolen from his grandmother surprised and appalled him. "He hardly needs to nick things from his grandmother to pay for his vices, should he still have them."

"But he might," she said. "What if he needs to hide his habits from his girlfriend or wife?"

Bridget had a point. "We'll just have to see if that's a possibility," said Mark. He stood, walked over to the bureau where his mobile lay, took it in hand and opened it. He punched in Nigel's number; he knew that Nigel and Ted had an ongoing chess game in progress.

"Darcy?" came Nigel's jovially gruff voice as he came on the line. "Thought you were on holiday."

"I am," he said and turned his eyes to Bridget. "Just had a quick question. Putting together a possible dinner party list and want to invite Ted Llewellyn, but realised we have no idea if he's got a wife."

"Ted? Not even a girlfriend. Why do you think he spends so much time playing chess with me?" Nigel bellowed with laughter.

"I'll pass that on," he replied; he couldn't help but chuckling, himself. "Talk to you later." With that he disconnected, closing his phone, then addressed Bridget. "Well. There you have it. He's single." He sat upon the bed again. "Does that help to ease your mind?"

She sighed. "I suppose."

"You suppose," he echoed teasingly, then leaned over to kiss her. "Can we think of other things besides Ted and his grandmother, please?"

She still looked dubious. "I'm not sure I yet forgive you for doubting me," she said. There was a hint of a smirk playing the corner of her mouth.

"I did say I was sorry," he said, still hovering just above her by millimeters.

She raised her chin, turned her head away, in a gesture of playful snubbing.

He took the opportunity to avail himself of that portion of her chin and throat available to him, began to lavish attention upon them with very eager lips. Sounds of approval, of forgiveness, were soon to be heard. He pushed back the sheets and slipped in alongside her, careful to avoid her injured arm. He had no dress to circumvent, for which he was thankful; his fingers brushed along the satin of her bra cup, down to her waist, to the top of her pants, as she relented her mouth and accepted his kiss.

Yes. He reasoned he was very much forgiven.

There was, unfortunately, an interruption that could not be ignored, a rather resounding pounding on the suite door at just that moment, made more urgent as it was followed up with Bridget's father's voice: "Bridget? Mark?"

"Oh no," she said, stiffening under his touch. "Oh God. Not my father."

"Are you in there?" came the follow-up call.

"Don't let him in," she begged him in a whisper.

Mark sighed, retreating from the warmth of his wife. "Let me go assure him all is well."

He rose and walked to the door, waited for Bridget to pull the sheet back up over herself before opening it enough to see Colin standing there, looking slightly worried. "Everything all right?"

Mark smiled patiently. "Everything is fine."

Relief washed over his features. "I figured as much but I wanted to be sure before I headed home. Where's Bridget? Can I see her?"

"She's… um. Napping."

"Oh." His features then changed subtly, as if he suddenly noticed that Mark had not opened the door the whole way as well as with Mark's white lie and drawing the obvious conclusion, and he turned somewhat pink as he repeated, "Oh."

Eager to get the man's mind off of what he thought he might have interrupted, Mark encouraged, "I thought you were staying for supper. You could see her then."

"No, no, can't stay after all," said Colin. "Cards were a bust and Pam called to tell me she's coming by to pick me up so we can have supper out. I told her to take her time because I had to get something in the house but…" He trailed off, and Mark understood instantly. If Colin wasn't ready and waiting, Pam would come in to find him, and that would be double mortification for Bridget.

"Have a good evening," said Mark.

Colin smiled, then left. Mark closed the door, ensured that it latched, then rejoined Bridget on the bed. "He's gone," he said, stating the obvious.

She did not push the covers back. "I'm a little put off now," came the voice from beneath them.

He sighed. He had to admit his enthusiasm had sagged somewhat since the sudden appearance of her father. "We probably should get ready for dinner."

"Yeah," came her reply.

He rose from her side, went over to the lamp, and switched it on; his mother had not been kidding when she said it stayed relatively dim in there most of the day. "Presumably you do not want to put the dress back on. What would you like to wear?"

"Anything's fine." He looked back to see she had at least pushed the sheets back and sat up.

He pulled out a pair of cotton trousers and a casual knit shirt of pale blue that he rather liked to see her in. He brought them to her. She grinned. "You always pick this shirt out for me."

"What can I say?" he said, a self-satisfied smile finding his lips. "I know what I like and I stick with it."

He helped her slip into the top, carefully threading her injured arm through the sleeve. He pulled the top down to her waist, smoothing it down along her sides.

"What exactly is so great about this shirt, anyway? It's pretty boring."

He thought for a few moments, then began enumerating the reasons. "The colour brings out the brightness of your eyes," he began. "The knit is snug without being too tight and the vee-neck is just low enough; the combination nicely showcases your rather exquisite… assets."

"Mark," she said in a tone that was a strange mixture of flattered and appalled. "Every time I wear this now I'm going to think you're ogling me."

"So what if I am? Wouldn't you worry if I didn't?"

She reached out and slapped the back of his hand lightly, and she was smiling but blushing in a manner that he found irresistible.

"Give me my trousers," she said in an obvious redirection of subject.

"Why should I do that?" he asked, his fingers tracing along the waistband of that beloved shirt. His enthusiasm was returning in spades.

"Dinner?" she said, as if he were a slow child. "You just said—"

"Forget what I just said."

He pulled her close and kissed her, hooking his thumbs under the elastic waist of her pants. Soon enough, she did forget.

Bridget never wanted to be considered a Smug Married, but when it came to being married to Mark, there were certain aspects she was very, very smug about. Those of her friends who were also already married would often complain how their sex lives had withered and nearly died once vows had been exchanged. On this subject Bridget would stay decently mute; she wanted to keep her friends.

Dinner that evening had become quite an adventure. Every time she'd looked up she'd caught Mark gazing at her, and he'd meet her eyes and smirk very subtly, undoubtedly thinking of their earlier shag while she was wearing what she'd always considered to be a rather plain, boring shirt, one she'd had no idea he thought so highly of. The exchange of looks became something of a naughty game. If there had been meaningful conversation with the meal, she had no recollection of it, though she did recall Elaine apologising profusely for telling Colin in which room they were staying.

The game had concluded back in their quarters not too long after dessert, and after a decent night's sleep, continued most enthusiastically the next morning with plenty of time to make it down for breakfast. The scent of freshly baked muffins and coffee led them to the back patio once again, where the family had assembled and greeted them with smiling faces.

"It's a beautiful Monday morning," called Elaine with a wave and a grin. Bridget was suddenly struck with the notion that everyone present—Elaine, Malcolm and especially Uncle Nick—knew full well why they had retired early and were joining them for breakfast late. She waved back with her left arm, squeezed the right hand that had settled around Mark's waist, then broke away to take a seat at the table.

She grabbed two muffins teeming with fresh blueberries as Mark poured her a cup of coffee. "Would you like me to butter your muffin?" she asked Mark, then felt herself flush; given the activities of the evening before and of the morning, this perfectly innocent request suddenly sounded horribly double-entendre to her ears.

Mark seemed oblivious to her discomfort and said, "Yes, I'd love that."

Eager to change the subject, Bridget said as she accepted her coffee from Mark, smiling most angelically, "So we've been talking it over, and I've realised that I'm probably reading too much into Agnes' missing ring, after all."

She looked up and met Mark's eyes. He smiled, believing her completely, not that she was being untruthful as such. Just because she intended on doing a little additional searching on her own about the ring, about Ted himself, didn't mean she was lying; that's why qualifying words like "probably" were so important.

"Excellent, my dear," said Malcolm. "Shouldn't borrow trouble where there is none."

Elaine nodded. "You should be enjoying your time off here in the country."

However, she caught Nick raising an eyebrow, and she was suddenly afraid that she wouldn't be able to completely fool that sharp old bugger.

"I don't think either Mark or Bridget could be accused of not enjoying their time off in the country," Nick said drolly.

She felt herself turn pink again. Nick was, of course, the least subtle about letting her know he knew. Mark was pathetically oblivious to her mortification, as was usually the case post-coitally. She reasoned it took a little longer for the oxygen to get back into the logical parts of his brain, and didn't hold it against him.

After polishing off her muffin, she cleared her throat and announced that since she hadn't touched her laptop since getting to Grafton Underwood, she really needed to check her e-mail. "Bridget darling," said Elaine, "one of the whiz kids in town helped set up a secured wireless network. Password's Mark's birthday. Connection's best in the library. Have fun."

She took in the last of her coffee, rose from her seat, bent to give Mark a quick kiss on the lips, then trotted back into the house to fetch her laptop.

Quickly she went back down to the library, established the internet connection and curled up on one of those seemingly-standard wealthy-person leather sofas; theirs at least wasn't ice-cold to the touch. She spent many frustrating moments trying to find information on good old Ted. Nothing was available that she hadn't already heard from Mark and Nick: practically a saint-style person who seemed to have a very promising future as a judge.

She idly wondered how he'd managed to keep his chequered past so hidden.

Annoyed at finding no useful information to the point of almost tossing her computer to the floor, she decided to try the search from another angle. She brought up a new tab and her favourite search engine, then sat and stared at the screen.

What to search on?

With a light laugh, she decided, typed in the phrase "ugly Victorian ring" then pressed Enter.

Three or four results down, she found something very intriguing. The abstract for the search hit included the phrase "…the ugliest, dare I say fugliest, ring to ever exist, ostensibly Victorian…". Eagerly she clicked on the result. It was someone's online blog, and there was not much more to see there, just a very small thumbnail of a ring that closely resembled the ring she remembered Agnes having, linking back to an online auction site. Adrenaline shot through her system. She clicked on the link.

The auction was still going strong, and there it was in all its glory, Agnes' horrid old scratchy ring. She gasped, actually said out loud, "Oh my God."

She then saw the seller's name listed: AngelX. She clicked on it, was astounded to see eight other items currently for sale.

"I should have known," came the wry voice from behind her. "You gave up far too easily."

Uncle Nick. She sighed.

Instead of continuing to harangue her on this subject, though, he took a close look at what was on her screen, and said, "Bridget, zoom in on that watch."

She furrowed her brow, directed her cursor over the photo in the lower right corner, then clicked. It raised a new page for another auction. Nick took a seat beside her on the sofa, and was silent for so many minutes it worried her.

"Nick?"

He spoke at last. "I know that watch. I remember Edward wearing it. That face is very unique."

There was a long silence again and it dawned on her that maybe, just maybe, she had an ally in her suspicions. However, something about this whole thing seemed off, and as her eyes lit on the word 'charity', she realised that every one of the auctions was to benefit a non-profit organisation.

"Bridget," said Nick. "These are all charity auctions."

She sighed. "I see that."

"That kind of puts a hole in your theory," he said.

"You needn't keep driving the point home."

"It would appear to be that you were right about Agnes' possessions," he began, and she was proud that she might have actually won him over until he continued, "though it's possible she has asked him to sell these things for her."

"It's possible," said Bridget moodily, "but I think it's unlikely. Especially not her precious, horrible ring. She certainly doesn't need the money."

"But it's possible that she knows the end is nigh and he's helping her clear out the estate of things he doesn't want while she's still alive."

"That's bloody morbid of you," said Bridget, screwing up her face.

"The woman is in her nineties. The inevitable is coming sooner rather than later."

"Oh no."

They both turned to see Mark standing there.

"You aren't. Please tell me you aren't. You said you were off of this little obsession, Bridget."

"I did say 'probably'," she offered meekly.

"Right." He then directed his rather pointed gaze to his uncle. "And please tell me you aren't encouraging this."

Nick gestured to the computer screen. "She's on to something."

If she didn't know better, she'd have thought Mark had gone over to the wall and smacked it soundly against the plaster three or four times for the look on his face. "Let's see this irrefutable proof, shall we?" he said petulantly.

"I never said 'irrefutable'. But she did find what is undoubtedly Agnes' ring and a watch I recognise as Edward's both being sold here on this auction site." He beckoned Mark to get a little closer, and he pointed to the screen as Mark sat down on Bridget's other side.

Mark looked at the items listed for sale, asked Bridget to return to the page for the ring, and looked thoughtful. He quickly drew the same conclusion as his uncle had: "But if he stole them for profit, why sell them to benefit a charity? Besides, I can see no obvious connection between Ted and this seller 'AngelX'."

"Well, no, you wouldn't. None of us would," said Bridget.

"—because he'd be stupid to use a name too closely connected with his own," finished Nick.

Mark seemed to sense he was being ganged up on, and looked slightly terrified. "What if someone else stole these items, found they weren't easy to fence, and decided to just dump them in an auction?"

"That's a possibility, but who else would have a chance to get to the stuff in that house? The nurse is there constantly," said Bridget.

"What if it's the nurse?" said Mark.

"Now who's accusing the innocent?" said Nick playfully.

Mark looked back and forth between his wife and his uncle and seemed to decide that it was best that he keep his mouth shut.

Bridget went back to the seller's page listing the other auctions. The oldest of the auctions, listed at the bottom of the page, was from the beginning of the month, and beside it was a small photo of—

"Mark, look! It's the mirror!"

"What?" he asked.

"The mirror that was missing from the hallway. I'd recognise it anywhere."

She clicked on the thumbnail and expanded the picture to full screen. There was no way Mark could accuse her of misidentifying, because it was so unique as to be unmistakable. Long, languid lines, floral patterning on the edges, a distinct Art Nouveau design. She looked to Mark, watched him scrutinize the picture.

"That is a very… distinct-looking mirror," he said, and she wondered if that was as much as he would allow her. Frustrating man.

She turned and quickly and playfully punched him in the upper arm, and without thinking she used her left fist. It zinged to her shoulder but the shot landed true. He reacted by grabbing where she'd landed her punch. "Ow!"

"I'm right and you can't admit it," she said with a pout.

"You may be right, Bridget," said Nick supportively of his nephew.

"Be quiet or I'll punch you too," she joked.