Page 11 of Much Ado About Margaret
Ann took a step back, frowning. “It is very droll for Lane to say such and think he can speak for me, but I have every intention of pushing you and Mr. Darrow together, not apart.”
Maggie hugged the retrieved pages to her chest, heedless of the ink that might smear onto her frock.God, help me.This wasn’t happening. Mr. Darrow was the villain of this wedding, not the hero. “No, Ann, you must listen to me. I have no interest in Mr. Darrow, and we have already had two unbearable interactions that are better off forgotten. Besides, Aunt Eliza says he is not worth marrying, and I dare not disappoint heragain. She is single-minded—I must make a lucrative match and set a fine example for my sisters, even if I must marry Mr. Gainswell and his disgusting feet.”
“Slow down, Maggie, there is no need for such agitation. Though I must say, your aunt’s objections are surprising—for if Mr. Darrow is poor then I do not know of it,” said Ann. She crooked a thoughtful finger next to her chin, brows furrowed with thought. “Lane has never indicated he is impoverished, and we tell each other everything. Or almost everything. Hmm. Mr. Darrow presents himself well. The family estate, Fletcher, is reported to be ample and in good condition.” Ann turned away from the hedges and walked slowly back toward the veranda; she never did anything without looking like a queen in a procession while she did it. Maggie chased after her, remembering to hide the pages at her side. Ladylike, graceful, dainty cough, etc.
“Regardless, Ann, I beg you—”
“And”—Ann drew out the word theatrically, playfully—“a crucial thought occurs to me just now, as I remember that you want most ardently to set things right, mm, the ardent Miss Arden? Let me throw you together, let me try—the matter of your work will come up naturally in conversation, and I feel confident things will progress from there. That would make me very happy, my friend, exceedingly happy, and the pages scattered all across Pressmore will vex me not a bit.”
Maggie began dragging her feet. Shehadtold Ann to command her. Still, a woman had her pride. A small, annoying little voice insisted that maybe Mr. Darrow had undergone a change of heart, or perhaps a specific passage had moved him and altered his opinion of the work. No! He had been insulting and cruel to her face with his own stupid, handsome face, exposed her to the insatiable gossips of London, and made her swear a silent vow that anyone else on Earth could publishThe Killbridebut not him. Anyone but him.
While Ann handed off the butterfly net to a member of staff and walked inside the house, Maggie planted herself defiantly on the steps, raising her chin. “You will not change my mind about him, Ann. I am determined to hate him.”
Ann swished her lips to the side. “Even if he has high praise for your prose?”
“Well…”
“Oh-ho-ho!”
Maggie scrunched her nose. “No! Yes! Yes, even if he has high praise for my book. It is all over and decided; he has made his first impression, and it was a bad one.”
“Hearts and minds can change and mend,” said Ann, sweet. “Come, Maggie, won’t you let me try?”
Winny and Violet emerged at last from the maze. Combined, they had recovered perhaps a dozen or so lost pages. God only knew how many remained in the nooks and crannies of stately, sprawling Pressmore. It would take an age to find them all, and she really did owe Ann. Well, Aunt Eliza did, but Aunt Eliza was not making herself available for amends. And really, Maggie ought to have at least wound a few pieces of twine around the pages before cramming them into her luggage.
She felt tingly and hot from her scalp to her toes; she vastly preferred the bracing cold of before.
Reluctantly, Maggie recalled the way Mr. Darrow had looked at her at their first meeting, the intensity in his flinty eyes, the almost vulpine sharpness of his features, and the sensuous fall of his thick, dark hair. It was almost enough to make her want to listen, to make her want to try. But the chilly snap of disparagement in his voice returned to her, too, shattering the rosily conjured image.
The heroine could sprout wings and fly to America, for all I care, and it would still not interest me.
Maggie looked down at the pages ofThe Killbridein herhands. She loved this work, this book, every word chosen carefully, every scene meticulously devised. Often, she pictured her father reading the completed story, watching the play of excitement, joy, and interest move over his weathered face as he devoured the chapters. Bent at her desk, ignoring the cramps in her fingers and the coldness that spread through her under the shawl, fighting the dwindling candlelight, Maggie had poured her memories of her father’s story into the book, first to make him proud, then in his beloved memory.
A tremor passed through her hand as she stared down at the pages. What would Papa want for her? Love, certainly, but not with a man who couldn’t understand and nurture her brilliance. Even if, for some reason, Mr. Darrow had a change of heart, the words were said, the poison inflicted, and the damage already done.
“Do as you like, Ann, devise your most diabolical romantic schemes. But I tell you now—set aside loving him, I shall never even like him. He could offer to publish every book I ever dream of writing, and he would still not interest me.”
5
O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away.
The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 1, Scene 3
The next morning, Bridger was impressed to discover that his brother had dried himself out long enough to attend the wedding of Lane Richmond and Ann Graddock. Until then, he had eluded Bridger so completely that he had to consider that Pimm had given up and fled Pressmore. Stymied, Bridger had, as Lane suggested, found his way to the Sapphire Library, but not to indulge in the very good brandy. Instead, he gathered up the dozen or so pages of loose manuscript that he had hunted down around the estate and tried to collate them into a sensible order. Then, he read. In fact, he read the pages repeatedly, growing angrier with each pass. When the pages had first shot out of the window above them, Lane had watched him devour the words with a delighted grin.
“It’s obvious, man, isn’t it?” he had asked. “Those belong to my cousin Margaret.”
Yes, it was obvious. Obvious and bothersome.
Bridger was certain the book from Margaret Arden that had landed on his desk in London was little more than a literary whimper. Her talent was present but unrefined. Within five pages, he lost interest and set it aside. But now…Hmm. It rankled him. Perhaps what Miss Arden had said at that too-hot salon was true—once the drawing room drama concluded, the book actually went somewhere. He refused to revise his opinion entirely, but was willing, reluctantly, to admit there was promise here, were the right editor to work with the young lady.
If he could get control of his brother, there was a chance he could be that guide for her. Lane described her as an intelligent and reasonable woman, and with time, they could overcome their shaky start. It was a nice enough thought, but after failing to locate his brother and realizing he might have been too hasty about Miss Arden’s work, he tossed through a sleepless night. Now, in the glare of the morning sun, he stood outside the chapel, an amiable walk’s distance away from Pressmore, and watched Lane and Ann saunter up the path, man and wife, sealed together by God before family and friends, and on their way to host a magnificent breakfast. He would follow, eventually, but not before seeking out Pimm.
