Page 10 of Much Ado About Margaret
“One cannot exaggerate the joy of knowing comfort andstability,” Mildred added. There was a distance in her eyes, or a sadness, that stirred pity in Maggie’s heart. Mildred plucked idly at the glamorous ring on her left hand. “Mr. Richmond was not a soft man nor an affectionate one, but we had our moments of understanding. And he gave me this”—she gestured to the walls around them—“and my children, so how could one possibly complain?”
Aunt Eliza flinched. Their shared pain was evident, and even studied expressions couldn’t conceal it. They had married in the expected way, and her mother hadn’t, and where the most suffering had taken place was now plain.
Maggie didn’t feel guilty, exactly, but ashamed, perhaps, afraid that she had already disappointed her family and her sisters. It made her lightheaded to think Violet and Winny would live to resent her like this, to speak of her in such a cold way. The family mythology had always decreed that Aunt Mildred was ecstatically in love with the wealthy and aloof Mr. Richmond. Now that she considered it, she had never seen him smile or laugh. She had, however, seen Lane attempt to make him do both of those things frequently, to no success. Maggie had been ignorant, until that moment, of the reality that diverted from the cherished narrative. And so, she fell quiet momentarily, trying to compose herself, aware that their ideas of happiness were nothing alike. “I’m afraid the pages have already flown out the window. What if everyone knows the book is mine?” she asked softly. “I was already the target of whispers. So much for that reputation.”
“The staff will search diligently,” said Aunt Mildred, bustling over to them. Her face softened, though only a little. Maggie felt outnumbered, trapped. “I daresay there cannot be too many of those pages with your name upon them, mm?”
Maggie nodded, hanging her head. “Just the first page.”
“Then we shall find it,” Mildred declared, as if it were easy, as if that page might not be halfway to Dover by now oralready in someone’s possession. “The rest we will explain away, and you must put it out of your mind. People must know the Margaret Arden who doesn’t always have her head stuck in a book. I’m sure Ann can be relied upon to guide you; she excels at finding husbands.”
Maggie turned away, crestfallen.
There is no Margaret Arden without books.
Aunt Eliza let go of her and raised her head, smoothing her palms down her skirt before striding to the open door with her sister. “The journey has left me fatigued, I fear; collect your sisters and see that they are not making a nuisance of themselves.”
“Let me show you the new draperies in the library,” Mildred was saying, looping her elbow with Eliza’s.
“No, no, I’m simply too tired. Later, sister, the draperies will not take offense.”
The sisters laughed softly with each other. As she watched them go, Maggie sank into a defeated sadness. They were probably right. She needed to consider what might befall them if Aunt Eliza withdrew her charity and left them without a roof or sustenance. And she could imagine that they must have been boiling when her mother kept them in precarious wondering over their own fates. The three sisters—Emmeline (Maggie’s mother), Eliza, and Mildred—did not share a uniformly warm relationship. Eliza and Mildred remained close, but Maggie had always detected a frostiness between her mother and her aunts, particularly a rift between her mother and Mildred.
Her mother was a disappointment, clearly, just like Maggie was in danger of becoming.
Mamma had married for love, and how had that turned out? Three precocious daughters with few marriage prospects, and all of them relying on Eliza’s aid. Maggie would find it easier to disregard her aunts’ practical marriage approach if itwasn’t paying for Mosely Cottage and putting food on their table.
The chill in Maggie’s body dissipated as she hurried out into the corridor and down the grand stairs, retracing her steps to the veranda and then the garden. She wouldn’t recover the pages of her book standing there wallowing in misery, and one of Winny’s optimistic theories of life offered itself up as her walk became a trot—whenever her sister encountered a misfortune, she murmured (or delicately swore, in her eminently innocent way): “Lost bonnet!” Meaning, one might be walking down the lane when a strong gust carried your bonnet away. Chasing into the field after it could spare one from being run over by a carriage or bitten by a stray dog. In this way, a small setback prevented greater sadness.
Through gritted teeth, Maggie tried to greet the staff and guests with a taut smile. Yes, in fact, it was an excellent thing that her most precious possession had been scattered like so much sand! How convenient! How pleasing! She didn’t know how Winny stayed cheerful all the time; it was exhausting, practically impossible.
Maggie rushed outside to find the staff of Pressmore, as Mildred promised, in an uproar, running here and there, trying to swat pages out of trees and recapture them from the tops of tents, battling the wind and chaos as if a swarm of locusts had been freed on the property. Forget the lost bonnet, her mood was black and there was no remedy for it.
She recognized Ann Graddock, Lane’s fiancée, swiping pages out of a topiary with a long-handled butterfly net. Laughing, the woman scooped up an errant piece of parchment and turned to hold it up for the staff to see. There was a subdued cheer. She then noticed Maggie poised on the veranda steps like a criminal, somewhat hunched and smallish, attempting to meld with the verge.
Don’t see me, don’t see me, don’t see me…
“I suppose this is your doing?” Ann was already navigating the celebratory tents placed just outside the south lawn of the house. “If this is your attempt at a wedding gift, I respectfully decline. I do love a chase through the hedge maze, but a more orderly treasure hunt is requested next time. And with due warning! My, but it is windy today.”
Maggie sighed, cheeks a mortified red as she embraced Ann. Only someone as relaxed and happy as Ann Graddock could take this aggravation in stride. Fishing out a few crumpled, dirtied pages from the net, Ann presented them to Maggie with a wry smile.
“Oh, but there won’t be a next time because your wedding will be perfect, you and Lane are utterly perfect, and you will live happily forever, despite this little…” Maggie held up the pages and shook her head. “It is my Aunt Eliza’s doing, if you can believe it. Violet and Winny left my manuscript by the window and Eliza thought the room could use some air. I am so sorry, Ann, I know this is the last thing you need while preparations are underway. Whatever I can do to put this right, just say the word. I am yours to command.”
Ann kissed her on both cheeks, slinging the butterfly net over one shoulder gallantly. “I tease, Maggie, I only tease, for I would much rather have your words raining down on us than the wet of a summer shower. In fact, it adds to the whimsy of the masquerade, I think. Perhaps I can give out prizes to whomever recovers the most pages! What an amusement!” Ann lowered her voice, threading her arm through Maggie’s and pulling her toward the hedges east of the veranda and pavilions. A few stray pages had gotten wedged in the branches there, and Maggie, sheepish, quickly plucked them out of the greenery. “And I already have an inkling of who might win that prize. Shall I tell you?”
A mischievous gleam brightened Ann’s already beguiling eyes. From within the hedge maze, she heard her sisterslaughing uncontrollably as they tried to catch flying pages. The combination twisted Maggie’s stomach into knots. “Why do I mistrust that look of yours?”
“So, you cannot guess? Is this a new development, then?” Ann’s inky eyelashes fluttered. “How delicious! And to think, my own nuptials could encourage even more love into the world.”
“I can’t pretend to know what you mean,” said Maggie, exasperated.
With a conspiratorial glance around, Ann urged her closer, her voice a salacious whisper. “I have overheard just now a conversation between my Lane and one Mr. Bridger Darrow. Do you know him?”
Maggie groaned.
“That…is not the reaction I was anticipating,” Ann replied, laughing. “How could you respond so to a man utterly enraptured with your words?”
“My what?” Maggie almost screeched it, forgetting herself. Ladylike. Graceful. She was to be no more obtrusive or offensive than a dainty cough into a silk glove. “No, Ann, you’re mistaken, you must be. That man despises my book, I’ve heard it from him directly. And I have already spoken with Lane, who assured me you would do your best to keep me far, far away from the awful Mr. Darrow.”
