Page 21 of Much Ado About Margaret
“We were speaking of lady writers.”
“Oh.” He blinked hard, ears ringing, disoriented. “No, never mind that…”
“Here,” she said. The warmth and care had vanished fromher gaze. She spoke directly, as if to a stranger who had fallen in the street. “Come, let me help you stand.”
Lane had always told him what a relief it was to find Ann, to discover a person who could stick it out through the bad nights and the inevitable resurgence of horrid memories. Her understanding had been a balm, he said, one he needed now, one he depended upon. Margaret guided him to his feet, and the glances full of judgment and disgust that he expected never came.
Bridger tried to focus again on what they had been discussing, but it was difficult. “I’ve given offense,” he muttered.
“No, no. My father was haunted by certain things,” she told him, and yet, cold. “He served on a seventy-four gun, third-class ship of the line. The HMSLionheart.”
Bridger dusted off his jacket and waistcoat, coming back to himself. “I see,” he said.
“There is no need to be embarrassed,” Margaret added, correctly interpreting the red skin beneath his cravat. “The stories my father told were harrowing, and I always suspected he spared me the worst of it. I can’t begin to imagine what you witnessed in France.”
In his shock, Bridger had dropped the recovered page with her name on it. To his horror, it was nowhere to be seen. Blown away or swallowed by the shadows, it was gone. Then, the guests who had gone to watch the fireworks returned, swarming up the lantern-strewn lawn. Lane was at the front of them and came directly to Bridger.
He tore off his mask, taking Bridger by the forearm. “Blazes, man, are you well? I saw you go down. The fireworks…did it…did you…”
“Fine, my friend,” Bridger assured him, shaking off the last of his cold sweat. He looked askance at Margaret, who stole cautious glances at him. “I suppose this is a spot more civilized than Toulouse, eh?”
“A spot, a spot.” Lane laughed grimly.
“Only my pride is bruised,” Bridger added. And here, he looked firmly at Miss Arden. He was beginning to realize he was more embarrassed for having failed her test than reacting intensely to the explosions. She offered back nothing, her face impossible to read.
Lane clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing, as if searching for weaknesses. “Well, then, if you are fit for it, I believe it is now our solemn duty to drain the punch bowls and present ourselves for one last dance, mm?”
There was more he wished to say to Miss Arden, but more and more guests were filling in the spaces around them. Bridger shouldered his way back to her side, clearing his throat, speaking in a tone just for her ears.
“Not Perseus, then,” he said, by way of truce. “Not Actaeon, not Hector…”
“Achilles?” she asked. “We are all of us vulnerable in our own way.”
Bridger’s chest swelled with relief, and with admiration for her generosity, but with incredible timing, Regina made herself known, winding her way between attendees, coming to stand between Lane and Bridger. Her attention was fixed, hawklike, on Margaret, and there was a hard meanness to her pinched smile that concerned him. Subtly, he tried to plant himself between the women. But Regina’s companion tugged on her puffed sleeve, and, turning toward the veranda, the back of the house, and the balcony above, Regina’s eyes slid up and up, lingering for a moment before she turned toward Lane.
“It appears your wife is not yet abed, and pray, who is that with her?” asked Regina, pointing to the upper floors with her fan.
Naturally, Regina’s question directed everyone’s attention to the balcony. Its railings were soft with climbing ivy and wisteria, and it jutted out over a set of tall doors that led out tothe promenade and the gardens. Two figures stood silhouetted against the soft yellow light emanating from inside the house. The lady of the pair was partially hidden by a starry veil and elaborate mask, and Bridger recognized it as Ann’s at once. A tall fellow was with her, also masked, his back partially to the outdoors, for the two of them had retreated almost inside. Almost but not quite.
Lane’s lingering laughter died down as the man pulled Ann into a tight embrace, and, cupping her face with both hands, kissed her. They embraced passionately, seemingly unaware of their rapt and scandalized audience.
10
Friendship is constant in all other things,
Save in the office and affairs of love.
Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2, Scene 1
The party erupted and splintered. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Lane collapse against Bridger Darrow’s side. The masquerade, the punch, the fireworks, all of it was swept away in a rush of shock and horror.
“Ann wouldn’t,” she heard herself say. The blood was draining out of her head so fast it left her dizzy. Darrow half swiveled toward her, supporting Lane and urging him back to his feet. “She wouldn’t,” Maggie repeated, this time directly to him. “I know she wouldn’t.”
“Aunt Mildred will faint dead away if she hears this in the wrong way,” said Violet, appearing at her side, materializing out of the crowd. Maggie turned in a circle, taking inventory of the chaos—Miss Applethwaite and a lady that Maggie assumed was her mother had stepped back into the gallery to whisper with other feathered, silken ladies; Winny nudged her way free of the milling guests to join Maggie and Violet; thefigures on the balcony had disappeared back inside; music played on inside for nobody; Lane snapped out of his stupor and charged across the veranda, headed back inside, no doubt to find his wife and demand answers.
“I need you to find our family and keep them occupied, more importantly, away from Ann,” said Maggie, taking Violet and Winny each by the elbow. Her sisters were ever-energetic coconspirators and disappeared in a puff of perfume and gasps to locate their aunts. Mr. Darrow had torn off after Lane, and so Maggie went with him, running to reach his side.
“Let me handle him,” Darrow muttered, eyes fixed on Lane. They all ducked inside, the warmth and the cheery lights and the good smells a sickening counterpoint to the disaster unfolding. “He and I have been through worse than this, he’ll come out the other side unscathed, I promise you that.”
