Page 16 of Much Ado About Margaret
That reminded him—it was time to dress for the masquerade.
Bridger smirked, standing, and regarded the cravats at a distance. It was just for show; the answer was obvious. “Ann is your lady wife, my friend, so yellow is the only choice.”
“This is why she approves of our friendship.” Lane laughed and went to the open balcony doors. Bridger joined him, soothed, finally, by the tobacco drawn deep from the pipe. The invigorating scent of early evening flowers was carried in on an undulating breeze. As dusk arrived, the lanterns placed out in the garden and veranda began to twinkle softly like playful fireflies lying in wait for the masquerade. Bridger wanted to look at it with hopeful eyes, but he couldn’t forget his boundand bruised brother in the room behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed Pimm beginning to stir.
“Maybe I should go, Lane. Leave now and take him there myself.”
“There’s no need for that. No need to retreat.”
But the retreat, the isolation, was easier. A quiet corner with a well-loved book, that was easier. He couldn’t disappoint or fail anyone when he was on his own. Bridger lowered the pipe, staring out over the grounds with cooling eyes. He felt his mentor, John, watching him from beyond the grave, and his father, and the men of the regiment he couldn’t save. Shivering, he did indeed retreat, but inward. A desire flashed briefly before him—he could just ask Lane for the money to stabilize the family’s finances here and now. Lane would oblige him.
“And anyway, Ann would kill me if you left now. This confounding masquerade is her masterpiece, and she is determined that it change the world,” Lane told him, smiling down at the yellow cravat in his grasp.
“Change the world? Lofty expectations.”
“That’s Ann.” Lane’s head lifted, and Bridger felt the pressure of his stare.
“What?” he asked, shifting away.
“Perhaps not change the world, then, but change you,” said Lane. “I’m sure you observed her at work already. She rearranged the breakfast seating just to put you and Miss Arden near each other.”
The momentary willingness to ask for help passed, fleeting as a summer rain shower.
Bridger stiffened outwardly, even as his heart did a weird thing at the mention of her name. “Ah. That explains things. Your new wife may be hard at work, but so is the devil. I noted Regina Applethwaite swooping in on her. I’m already at a deficit where she’s concerned. With Regina’s influence she will never glance my way again.”
“It isn’t like you to give up easily,” said Lane, peering. “A man of your age needs ties and anchors lest he drift away.”
Though Bridger agreed, he was not exactly an attractive match at the moment. Until his financial woes were resolved, it was unlikely any lady would agree to marry him. But Lane was of the mind that there were no issues there, so Bridger merely grunted and changed the subject. “What is Regina doing here anyway?”
“She was introduced to Ann this winter and they became quickly attached. Ann was desperate for company at the operas, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her things were uneasy between you and Regina.” Lane shuddered and tracked back inside, Bridger turning to watch him go. No doubt it was time for them both to hasten their preparations for the evening’s event. “If it will help, I could employ Ann’s sister and cousin for the night. They are always eager to be included in a scheme, and if you need them to keep Regina busy it would be a small ask,” his friend said, giving Pimm a wide berth on his way to the door. “In fact, it might be good to set them a task. They are nearly as mischievous as Ann herself.”
Bridger waved him off from the balcony. “Where Miss Arden and her whims are concerned, perhaps we should let fate decide.”
He heard his friend chuckle and pause at the door. “Men at some time are masters of their fates,” he called. “I seem to recall you quoting that endlessly on campaign.”
His friend had him there. The words of Shakespeare and Donne and Blake had flowed freely from him to the men, for somehow it had been easier to keep his head up and stay the course confidently when everything was on the line. Now, faced with civilian affairs, it wasn’t nearly so straightforward. No longer was the mandate “stay alive” but live. Thrive.
“Yes,” he replied. “I was insufferable.”
“Still are,” Lane teased, and, halfway out the door, cravatstucked up under his chin, indicated Pimm on the floor between them. “Don’t breathe a word of this to Ann, mm? I’d rather she not hear about this little squabble until after her grand plan is executed. Let tonight be just for magic.”
With a wink and a smile, Lane disappeared, and Bridger was alone with his pipe, his brother, and his thoughts. He only wanted one of those—his pipe. Snuff was more the fashion, but smoking had gotten him through desolate nights in France, and he liked having something to fuss with and paw and chew. A dragon of white smoke drifted off the balcony, puffed from his lips, joining the bunting and boughs strung between the pavilion poles and threaded through the railings of the veranda. The view swept down to the lake, where a small boat floated like a children’s paper toy, relatively still in the docile wind.
He could only imagine what people would say when they found out about him wrangling his brother into bindings, and he could only imagine what Regina had whispered to Miss Arden. Nothing good, he wagered, for with the sour end to their courtship, he assumed Regina had delivered a warning of one kind or another. The understanding between them had dissolved while he was in France, and like the rage that came on suddenly inside him, he wished that part of him was forever lost. Was he any different now? Truly? Here he was, still cleaning up family messes. But he was also a man who relished the smell of ink and the feel of paper beneath his hands, a man who nearly wept when he first saw a papermaking Fourdrinier machine in action. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine the churn of the machine, the damp mulchy smell of the linen pulp, and the warmth of the heated rollers as they dried the paper. A man of direction and passions, a man who could be better.
The memories of ink and paper made him smile. More than the tobacco, more than the fresh air, they soothed him. Thatonce-docile wind whipped up from the lake, screaming across the estate grounds and toward him on the balcony. It carried a gift or a curse, depending on one’s perspective. With eyes closed, he felt the wet smack of paper against his cheek. It wasn’t part of his Fourdrinier machine daydream, but fate, maybe, tipping its hand.
A night for magic, indeed.
Bridger nearly dropped the pipe dangling from his lips. He scrambled to catch the page that had blown in on the wind. It was another lost artifact of Miss Arden’s novel, the title page, in fact. Holding it at arm’s length, he grinned crookedly, taken by an unexpected moment of tenderness. The stroke of the pen over her name, though the presence of dew or lake water had caused it to run, was confident, and he imagined her bent over her desk, tongue poking out between her lips in concentration as she boldly put her name to her work. He didn’t know why, but the tongue thing seemed important. And if he didn’t hurry and dress, he wouldn’t be seeing her or her tongue in any capacity that evening.
It rather felt like history repeating itself. He had squandered his chances with a pretty, book-loving lady before, and now here he was, intrigued by another one.
“Would any other pages like to join us?” he asked with a light laugh, waiting a beat before going inside, closing the balcony doors, and setting out the paper to smooth and dry on the bedside dresser. He rang the bell for a manservant to help with dressing, and while waiting, so as not to alarm the staff, he dragged Pimm through the door connecting their rooms. His brother groaned in his stuporous sleep but settled again once placed on the rug.
Back in his own room, he at once found himself glancing at the page near his bed. It felt like it had grown a presence, as if a small, lingering vestige of Miss Arden lived in it. Her eyes and conversation had been lively at breakfast, and it had beena long, long while since he enjoyed the company of a woman. There had been dalliances in France, but any serious man looking to build a life would want a wife.
Ann’s desire for magic, it seemed, was spreading. Regina’s interference be damned, he would deliver that title page to Miss Arden himself.
