Much Ado About Margaret

Chapter 3

3

Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

The Taming of the Shrew, Act 1, Scene 2

The journey to Pressmore for Cousin Lane’s wedding had been bumpy and arduous, a test of endurance for both Maggie’s backside and her spirit. She had traveled with her aunt Eliza (Mrs. Burton), as well as Violet and Winny, who chatted genially about the countryside, the wedding, and Cousin Lane’s enchanting bride in between painful spells of Aunt Eliza glaring a hole into the side of Maggie’s cheek.

Her aunt had been understandably scandalized by Maggie’s behavior at the salon. Mr. Darrow must have complained to someone, who passed it along to someone else, who gossiped to Aunt Eliza’s favorite sewing companion, who of course told Eliza herself about Maggie’s ill-fated literary ambush of Mr. Bridger Darrow. And during the tense carriage ride, while Aunt Eliza lectured about propriety, good sense, composure, and meekness, Maggie was busy formulating her next book.

It was about the satisfying downfall of a handsome yet irritating man in publishing who came to ruin over the glamorous and intelligent female writer he spurned. Whether Mr. Darrow knew it or not, he had made a powerful nemesis in Maggie, who refused to admit her behavior had been rude and out of line. It was just one conversation about a book, why all the fuss? Anyway. When they at last reached Pressmore, Aunt Eliza made sure to pull Maggie aside before she could disappear into the far-spreading gardens of the estate.

Aunt Eliza wasn’t the only one who had married well; in fact, it was just their mother that had chosen with her heart and not her “sensible” mind. Their father had been a navy man, not rich, not poor, but certainly no one of stature beside Aunt Eliza’s husband, or the venerable gentleman that owned Pressmore. Eliza noticed her niece drinking in the scenery and breathing deeply of the luxurious gardens and found another chance to make her point.

“My sister did well for herself when she won Mr. Richmond, for he was even richer than my Mr. Burton,” said Aunt Eliza, head high. “If you’re going to expose yourself to public ridicule, at least do it in pursuit of a man richer than Mr. Bridger Darrow.”

Maggie pursed her lips. “I was not pursuing him, not for marriage!”

“Mm.” Her aunt’s attention drifted to the house, as if she were only half listening. “Though he does possess a stately bearing. Some say the elder Darrow male is the more attractive of the two, but there is a refinement about the younger that I find pleasing. No matter, such considerations are not your concern. It is better to be seduced by the promise of security, not mere countenance.”

Yes, I should content myself with the Mr. Gainswells of the world with their putrid feet.

Aunt Eliza smiled over her head at the house. “Would you not enjoy being mistress of such a wonderous place?”

I am, thought Maggie. I’m mistress of any expansive estate I want when I write it into being. She knew not to say as much.

“I will admit the gardens are most inspiring,” she replied.

“Let them inspire you toward the sort of husband that might provide just such a home.” Aunt Eliza caught Maggie’s hand before she could run off. Winny and Violet waited off to the side while the Pressmore staff unloaded their luggage and carried it to the main house, which loomed like a confection dressed in sugared flowers. “Do not disappoint me again, Margaret. Your mother might not be here, but I am as good as her eyes and ears. I expect you to carry yourself like the refined young lady I am certain you can be. I don’t want to hear your name attached to even a whiff of scandal. If there are introductions to be made— if —I will inform you. Do we understand each other?”

Maggie swallowed hard. “We do, Aunt Eliza.”

Winny and Violet had gotten bored waiting for her and had disappeared by the time her aunt marched away with her slow, stately steps. Other coaches were arriving, filling the manicured drive, sending up gouts of dust. Maggie wandered a few steps toward the front door but changed her mind, taking the path leading right that circled the property. The gardens of Pressmore spread out around Maggie like a great patchwork skirt, a comely tangle of cow parsley and wild garlic flowers seamlessly blended into a more deliberate diamond grid of rosebushes and squared hedges. One could easily imagine Titania and Oberon striding through the ivy-covered arches, a retinue of fairies dancing behind them. In those same gardens, many summers ago, Violet had recited one of Puck’s speeches from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, fireflies twinkling around her like a starlight cloak, while her sisters and cousins lay about on blankets. My mistress with a monster is in love, it began. Maggie would never forget that night; she still recalled most of the lines.

She yearned for those times, when dreams felt catchable, and nobody spoke of husbands or fortunes or the bleak specter of spinsterhood.

While she walked, Maggie loosened the ribbons on her bonnet and let her shawl slide down to her elbows. While her eyes roamed over the hedges and flowers, her head was in the clouds, performing loops around the high expectations Aunt Eliza had set for her, fixating instead on what to call this villain in her new novel. What would she name him? Nothing even rhymed with Bridger. Another black mark next to his idiotic name. It was a pity he was so good-looking. A true waste! Yet a handsome wastrel was a better villain than an ugly one; the twist of the knife was meaner with an Angelo or Iago type thought to be devilishly desirable.

Her sister Winny’s sweet voice flooded her head: You mustn’t let a silly grudge overtake you like this. Pressmore has all the light and grace of heaven itself!

And Winny was right, of course, but Maggie couldn’t stop reliving her exchange with Mr. Darrow. She had received innumerable literary rejections already, but his reaction stung the worst. That she couldn’t put her finger on why made the whole interaction more provoking. Bridger Darrow was stuck in her teeth like a piece of food; if only she could spit him out. But it was a good thing she didn’t try to literally, for a figure appeared at the end of the path, moving swiftly toward her. She recognized her cousin Lane Richmond with his gorgeous head of coppery hair, boyish face, and the left sleeve of his coat pinned up to his shoulder. He had lost his arm in the war, though it hadn’t changed anything about his optimistic demeanor.

As he came toward her, his forehead was wrinkled as if he were puzzling over something serious.

“Lane?” she called, not wanting to disturb him. He was a man on the cusp of marriage, and no doubt there were many details and arrangements cluttering up his thoughts. But as soon as he saw her, his frown vanished.

“Margaret! I was hoping you might have arrived. Come here to me!”

“I’m sure I look rumpled beyond recognition.” Maggie laughed.

“No, no, cousin, you are as angelic as ever. Even the pitted roads couldn’t diminish your halo.” Lane took her by the hand, giving her an exuberant twirl. “Oh, but it has been too long.”

“Hardly six months,” she said, for they had spent Christmas together. Lane had been a balm for them all, for her father’s passing was still fresh then.

“I am hearing all sorts of naughty rumors about you,” he said, laughing and looping his arm through hers. “And yet I know you to be polite and restrained, which makes this gossip rather hard to believe. You must tell me the truth, and then I will be your staunch defender.”

“Is that why you looked troubled just now? Gossip? I hope not, I would never want to imperil your happiness.”

Lane paused, gazing off toward the west, where a trickle of carriages arrived. Pressmore could house some twenty-two or so guests, and would, with more attendees arriving the next day for the wedding itself and the evening masquerade. Those closest to Lane’s family would have the honor of staying at the estate for several days. “No, no,” he muttered, distracted. “That was business between gentlemen. Messy stuff, I’m afraid, but you have cleverly sidestepped my question, cousin. That will not do, you know. I must have your answer.”

Maggie’s brows shot up. “And what have you heard?”

“That you have forfeited your manners all over a ridiculous novel.”

“Have you ever known my stories to be ridiculous?” She gasped and drew back a step.

Lane hurried to correct himself, turning red. “Imaginative and adventurous, but not ridiculous, no. But I have a certain image in my mind, conjured there since a tender age, of you in a corner, scribbling and pondering and getting ink all over yourself. And I remember your father would always come up with the best little tales and riddles to make us smile when someone skinned a knee or suffered an insult. If any of you ladies were to draw the eye of gossips, I assumed it would be Violet.”

That was a more than sensible assumption. They paused under a thick archway over the path winding around the house. There was much commotion and chaos from the carriages and arrivals, but Maggie ignored it, clutching Lane’s hands. “Everything you say is true. But the gossips are right—I have behaved quite badly. I don’t know how to explain it, but I haven’t been myself since Papa died. I put so much of him into this book, so many of his memories and experiences, that I can’t help but vigorously defend it, cherish it, want all the world to read it. It feels…it feels…” Maggie sighed and lowered her head, realizing she was more exhausted from the trip than she had thought. Her eyes filled with tears, but she pushed them back. “It feels like I can keep him alive this way.”

“And here I have gone and called you ridiculous,” said Lane softly. “It’s clear I’ve heard but a part of the story. And it also sounds as if you were not at all interested in causing a scene with my friend Mr. Darrow, but rather were moved in a moment of passion.”

Maggie’s sadness vanished. “I beg your pardon, your friend ?”

Confusion flitted across Lane’s face as he chuckled at her reaction. “Why, yes, my greatest friend in the world. Have I never mentioned him? We fought together in France; the man saved my life more than once. I’m sure I’ve talked about Bridger before.”

“Maybe you have, and maybe his name never piqued my interest, but now it absolutely does.” Maggie groaned. This was impossible! “Say right now that he is not attending the wedding.”

Lane’s smile crumpled. “Margaret…”

“Lane.”

“Do not force me to lie.”

“Aunt Eliza has just made me swear to be good, made me promise to behave myself, and now I will be face-to-face with the rudest man in London again.”

Lane snorted. “That seems like somewhat of an exaggeration—”

“And everyone will be talking about us, which is all the more agitating! And Aunt Eliza will be watching me every moment, expecting me to tolerate it with perfect grace.”

“Or it could be a chance for reconciliation, even greater understanding. Bridger Darrow is usually quite sober in his judgments, a clear thinker, and not unreasonable—”

Maggie stumbled away, gripping her bonnet. “Lane, he called my book ‘overwrought.’ Not only that, but I’m also convinced he never even read past the opening chapter! That does not demonstrate reason or good judgment.”

“For certain, that is unkind, but it’s possible your style is simply not to his taste, or he was busy, distracted, if you prefer. He is often overrun trying to keep his brother in check,” said Lane. He reached for her, tugging her back into the shade beneath the arch. She could tell he was struggling to keep a straight face amidst her outburst. Perhaps she was being a touch dramatic. “And you couldn’t know this, but he has a history of, well, not handling women with the kind of delicacy they deserve. His mother died when he was quite young, and with no sisters or feminine influence in his life, then the war, he has lacked a woman’s perspective. Indeed, he’s had several ill-fated courtships, one in particular went spectacularly awry.”

“Courtships? You aren’t trying to imply that he and I would—”

“No!” Lane barked with laughter, swiftly waving the thought away with his hand. “No, God, no, simply saying—”

“Because that would be more ridiculous than anything I did at the salon, or any book I could devise—”

“No, Margaret, and in fact, I will do my best to see that you two are not seated near each other at any of our events, or rather, Ann will, because I don’t have a mind for these things,” said Lane. That did somewhat calm her. “And speaking of Ann, she is bound to attract far more gossip and scrutiny. Sadly, it seems to follow us wherever we go.” Ann was his wife-to-be, a woman of style and intelligence that Maggie had liked the moment they met. Lane’s eyes flitted to the drive, to the carriages, and for a moment he was far away, almost sad. Then he sniffed and shook off whatever troubling thought had descended. “Ann will be vexed to hear that you are under Aunt Eliza’s watchful eye. She and Emilia have been desperate to see you for weeks now. Ann speaks of nothing else.”

“Then, I will have my hands full trying to please both Aunt Eliza and Ann.” She truly was glad to be at Pressmore and to be with her dear cousin. “I wish Papa could be here to witness your happiness and to lend his blessing to the match, but I will not dwell on it, or on my book, or anything that might make me sink lower in Aunt Eliza’s estimations.”

Briefly, Lane nodded along with her, but once more his eye snagged on the stretch of road behind her and the steady clouds of dirt that rose there. His gaze lingered there so long, and his expression became so unreadable, that Maggie turned to see for herself. A rider had come charging up to the house, thrown his reins to a groom, and started across the lawn directly toward them. It took her a moment to recognize the man.

“That might prove difficult,” Lane murmured. “Unless you intend to hide in the wisteria.”

Maggie didn’t even have a moment to collect her wits before Mr. Bridger Darrow was upon them. Even sunburned and covered in road dust he cut a fine figure; Maggie wouldn’t allow herself to see it. He moved decisively, striding toward them with perfect confidence. She moved to Lane’s side just as Bridger Darrow dipped under the archway, noticed her presence, recoiled as if stumbling upon a nest of snakes, and bowed.

“Bridger!” Lane greeted him warmly, then glanced in Maggie’s direction. “I believe you’ve recently been acquainted with my cousin Miss Margaret Arden.”

With satisfaction, she watched the word “cousin” hit him like a slap. To his credit, he recovered neatly, schooling his face into a neutral, wooden expression before biting out a “Oh, I see, indeed. How do you do?”

“How do you do?” Maggie curtsied, offering nothing.

He tossed his head a little, ruffling his dark brown hair, as if that were an answer, then turned fully to Lane. “I did want to speak with you, Lane, about a matter of great urgency.” Darrow’s eyes flicked to her impatiently. “In private, madam, if that’s at all possible.”

“I’ll leave you, gentlemen,” Maggie said smoothly, coolly, before Lane could stammer out something else. She backed away, knowing the house well and hoping to enter by the veranda door to avoid all the guests milling about in the foyer while valets guided them this way and that. If she could turn into a spider and climb up to the windows, she would do that instead, anything to leave Darrow’s chilly aura. “It’s a fine day to sit in the sunshine and write another overwrought book.”

The little twitch in Darrow’s jaw pleased her very much.

His old friend Lane Richmond was visibly satisfied with himself.

“You deserved that,” said Lane, chuckling and touching Bridger lightly on the shoulder. “She is a sensitive creature, you know, even if she tries to hide it, and particularly protective of her work. I would scold you further for insulting my cousin to her face, but you already look like you’re suffering enough.”

Bridger brushed aside the desire to defend himself. There would be time for that later. What mattered now was making certain his brother, Pimm, hadn’t coaxed money out of Lane to cover his many shameful debts. He had ridden his horse half to death to make good time, and he allowed himself to consider that he had even beat his brother to Pressmore. When was the last time he had even seen Pimm Darrow in person? Christmas, maybe, when their paths had crossed briefly in London. Pimm kept to himself, or rather, kept to the gambling hells and brothels that still tolerated his presence, and emerged out of the city’s iniquitous shadows when he needed something from their father or, rarely, Bridger.

“Pimm was here,” said Lane, crushing Bridger’s hopes. He turned toward the back of the estate, going the way Miss Arden had fled. By and by, as they walked, they entered the eye of the storm. Pavilions were going up on the back lawn, strategically placed to give the best view of the pond, farther down the sweeping hill. Staff buzzed and conferred, carrying linens, chairs, lanterns, and all sorts to every corner of the estate. Typically, Lane wouldn’t indulge in such things, but it was extremely like him to indulge his pretty wife-to-be. Her tastes were extravagant and specific, and the staff would see them carried out to the letter.

“I was afraid of that.” Bridger squeezed both temples with one hand. “Whatever he asked of you, whatever he wanted, tell me you refused him.”

Lane hesitated, glancing at his feet and then at the sky. Darkness and depression glanced off of Lane like the wind-scattered leaves dancing down the tented pavilions. It never stuck. But here, now, just before his wedding, an unusual, serious wrinkle dented his friend’s forehead.

“I did refuse him,” said Lane, at last. “With difficulty. I…forgive me. I enjoy helping where I can, Bridger, and it isn’t a matter of the money itself, we could afford it, but, well, I just thought it best to let Pimm resolve the matter himself. Is that terribly selfish?”

“No, my friend, you did the right thing,” Bridger replied, gratified. “I didn’t endanger my horse getting here over nothing. I wanted to counsel you toward just such a decision.”

“Jolly good, then. Blazes, I felt awful about it, but he didn’t seem too angry at me. Or I’ve seen him angrier. He mentioned another plan to shore things up financially, and I wished him well on it.”

Another plan? Bridger didn’t like the sound of that. “Whatever the problem is this time, I’ll handle it.”

Lane’s frown eased as his fiancée floated out of the French doors attached to the back of the main house. She was like a beacon flashing across the sea, singularly beautiful, with full black hair and a poised, dancerly posture that many women coveted but few cultivated naturally. And Lane’s eyes followed her, clung to her, his chest rising and falling faster just at the sight of Ann.

With great effort, Lane switched his attention back to their discussion. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. He said the family ledgers were, are—”

“—under control,” Bridger finished for him decisively. He knew Lane too well, certain that if he gave him the full picture of their ruined finances, Lane would step in and be the hero. He couldn’t let his friend do that. Lane had saved him too many times, lost his arm doing it in France, and there was only so much one man should owe another. It would shatter Bridger’s heart to feel yet more indebted. Things had gotten out of hand while Bridger was in France and worsened when he returned and settled in London, and while he should have been able to rely on his brother to behave sensibly while he was gone, that wasn’t reality. No, this was his mess to clean up. Starting with…“Pimm has endangered our legacy with his recklessness, but Father’s solicitor is confident we have time to avoid disaster. Now I just need to keep my brother on a tight leash.” Bridger grumbled under his breath. “If I can even find the hot-blooded hound to slip on the lead…”

“Try the Sapphire Library, it has the best brandy,” said Lane. “In all seriousness, it’s good to hear you have things managed.” He was gazing at Ann again, a subtle blush creeping up his neck. Bridger wondered if he had ever seemed this way to someone else, utterly besotted, so passionate for a woman that it was impossible to hide it. No, there had been fleeting feelings, maybe a genuine attraction, but never this sort of consuming attachment. It looked good on Lane, being lost in love, so much so it almost made Bridger want the same thing.

“Not just managed,” Bridger assured him, with confidence he didn’t entirely feel. They continued toward the veranda and Ann, who was bent at the waist, an unrolled schematic held up for her by a valet. He had to admit, it was a bewitching aspect for her, for any woman, to be displaying such competence and control. Lane deserved to get lost in this moment. Bridger had to sell him on the fitness of the Darrow finances; it wouldn’t do to have his friend overtaken by worries during his wedding. “I’ve acquired a promising manuscript; one I think even John would appreciate.”

John Dockarty had been his mentor in publishing. Their friendship began a decade earlier, when a then-seventeen-year-old Bridger had written to Dockarty in London, praising a collection of stories he had edited and published. Their correspondence continued, with John always pushing for Bridger to leave behind the regiment and pursue his true passion, publishing. He didn’t need to push much harder after Bridger returned from France, worn and desperate for a change. It was John who urged him to sell his commission and use the money to start anew, and John who, childless and unmarried, left Dockarty & Co. to Bridger when a fever took him suddenly.

John had been an exacting man, precise and prickly, and Bridger had always published under his intense guidance. Now that John was gone, he felt immense pressure to uphold the standards of Dockarty & Co., and to make his old mentor proud.

“Would I know the writer?” asked Lane.

“No,” Bridger laughed. “You hate to read.”

“Well!”

“You do. I don’t begrudge you for it, though your cousin might,” said Bridger, needling.

“I like her stories,” said Lane. “You would, too, if you had any sense.”

“Ha! There we are destined to disagree. This is a new writer,” said Bridger, keen to steer the conversation back to his plans. He needed Lane to trust that the Darrow future was secure in his hands. It would be just like Pimm to keep begging and bothering Lane until the softhearted man relented. “G. R. Neeve is his name, and I’m telling you, Lane, I knew within pages that it would be something special, something sensational.”

“You really believe in this,” Lane remarked, studying him. Maybe, thought Bridger, when he talked about this work, he took on that same glow as Lane when he beheld his wife-to-be. “How did you come into possession of the work?”

“Quite out of the clear blue,” said Bridger. Ann had caught sight of them and paused her work to gift them with a bright smile before excusing herself to hurry in their direction. He could practically hear his friend’s heart beating faster. “It arrived on my desk not long after we buried John. I needed it, you know, that little burst of hope.”

“Yes, Ann and I were worried about you.”

“Not unwarranted. My father is in his decline and after losing John…” Bridger blew out a hard breath. He didn’t like to remember that span of months. He was better now, more solid, but it felt like those waves of panic and despair could reappear with any new failure. “I wasn’t myself. And then, like magic, that book arrives, like a miracle worked at the perfect time.”

Lane’s forehead was as wrinkled as a bloodhound’s as he grunted and pouted at Bridger. “First John and now your father. Are you certain you don’t need my help?”

“I’m sure.”

His friend sighed and turned back toward his fiancée.

Ann was motioning at something. Her gaze had been pulled higher, toward the upper levels of the house, and she shaded her eyes against the sun. Then, she pointed, and again, as if at individual birds in a passing flock. Some of the staff stopped their business to watch, gasping and giggling. Lane and Bridger took a few quick strides away from the arches, mimicking Ann’s pose. Against the harsh glare of the sun, it took Bridger a moment to realize that the faded white wings fluttering down from the house were, in fact, pages. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They were soaring out of an unseen window, caught by the breeze and carried this way and that across the property. One, however, floated down toward Bridger, landing in his outstretched hand with what felt like divine purpose.

Like a miracle worked at the perfect time.

Chap. 4, it read, and then:

Honor and horror walking arm in arm, boots sliding through salt water and blood. Fallon’s mind conjured Nelson and Wellesley, Duncan and Howe and Jervis, all the undeniably great men. They loomed and lingered. They watched and judged. By God, were they acting as great men now? With Howard’s arm hanging in pale shreds, with the life pouring out of him, with the bit going into his mouth and the surgeon hefting the steel, was this fit to remember? Fit to paint?

When all of this was washed away and he was home again and safe, how would he recount it? Fallon imagined his life as a library, and this volume of feckless gore nestled among the rest, a blood-red binding, a gaping sore. It was not a book he would choose to read, and yet here it was, his life.

And poor Howard. Poor, poor Howard. Fallon forced himself to look, look and remember, as the surgeon’s blade came down, bringing with it the neat crunch of bone and yet another spurt of hot blood.

Bridger lowered the crinkled page, realizing he had been holding in a breath. Where did this come from? he wondered, and then: I must have more.