Page 29 of Much Ado About Margaret
Mr. Darrow reached past her, gently, and rattled the latch. What must he think of her? She didn’t even know what she thought of herself. Ann had put it best: torn in a hundred directions. There was the right thing to do—listen to her aunts, accept their guidance, meekly marry whomever they put in front of her—but in her heart she knew it wasn’t theMargaretthing to do. She felt feverish. Jumbled. Her thoughts spun.
“You may just get your wish, Miss Arden. It appears we are trapped.”
Mr. Darrow pushed hard against the interior latch, shaking the entire cupboard.
Of course they were. Maggie erupted with laughter. It was too funny, too, too funny.
“I’m glad you’re amused, but I’m afraid we are no closer todiscovering the identity of our mystery woman, and unless you would like to pass the night together in this—blasted—cupboard!” He punctuated each word with a crunching slam of his shoulder against the door. Blowing out a long breath, he leaned back against the wooden wall and closed his eyes. “Unless you would like to pass the night together in this cupboard, we need to find a way out.”
“Right. Forgive me.” Maggie brushed a few sweaty strands of hair behind her ear and tried to shake off the sick, jittery feeling trembling through her body. “Let us push together. One, two, three!”
Side by side, they both threw their weight against the jammed door. It flew open with a crack, dumping them unceremoniously on the patterned blue rug just outside, positioned near the window alcove. Maggie landed first, letting out a muted shriek of surprise and alarm as she crumpled to the floor, Mr. Darrow tipping out on top of her. All that time spent on campaign must have sharpened his reflexes, for he nimbly caught himself, hands on either side of her head, only the scantest weight of his hips landing on her. It didn’t hurt too badly, but she gasped, her hands flying up to protect her head.
“Are you injured?” he asked, rolling to the side, and kneeling beside her.
The gentle blue glow of the library suited his dark coloring, making twin tempests of his almost black eyes.The sight of him would take a weaker woman’s breath away,she thought, then realized she was having trouble catching her own. She had tried to give the hero ofThe Killbridehis same intensity, his same controlled strength. Looking at him then, it was hard to imagine his temper, for he seemed totally contained, gentle in the solicitous probing of his eyes.
He offered his hand, and Maggie took it, captured at once by the calloused warmth of his fingers. That strength she sensed wasn’t imagined, for she felt it resonate through his grasp.
She felt the presence watching them before she heard the soft gasp of surprise.
Bridger tugged her smoothly to her feet, half catching her to keep her on balance, while a pale, cool face watched them from the aisle formed by the bookcases. The brighter light of the hallway illuminated her like a winter torch: Regina Applethwaite, unmasked and languidly fanning herself while her eyes gathered frost.
“I’m told your sisters are looking for you, Miss Arden,” said Regina, then disappeared, leaving nothing but a chill in her wake.
“This,” Miss Margaret murmured, stumbling over her words or her thoughts or both. She hastily pressed a folded piece of paper into Bridger’s hands. She stepped back from him, and instantly, he missed her glowing warmth. Even in the gloom of the Sapphire Library’s scant candles, he saw she was incandescently flushed. “I was meant to give this to Lane. Ann will be cross with me if he doesn’t get it. Can you…Could you…I…”
Bridger grinned, combing a steadying hand through his hair, dismayed to find it was hopelessly mussed. “Of course, Miss Arden. I’ll see that he gets it.”
She took a few steps away toward the open doors, stopped, and pivoted back toward him. They had been caught, and not by the most forgiving sentinel. He groaned internally thinking of the gossip Regina would spread.Let her.Perhaps it was history repeating itself, his interest in a woman of questionable material means but rich in spirit and mind. And perhaps Regina would hate him even more for it, but a change in him was occurring, a desire to separate himself from the demands and judgments of his father, and it feltgood.
It would feel better once he brought Pimm to heel andreturned him to Fletcher. Once he was free of his own burdens, once he knew the family fortune wasn’t entirely spent, then, oh then, he might finally make a choice for himself—not out of necessity, but out of pure desire.
Bridger watched Margaret leave the library, his heart light then heavy, heavy as he remembered the weight of the words that had been heaped onto her by her aunts. It wasn’t his business to know how dire a burden they considered her, but now he did know. He knew, and his heart swelled with sympathy. He tarried just a moment in the oceanic darkness of the Sapphire Library, letting Margaret get some distance from him before he ventured out to find Lane. It wasn’t difficult to locate him; Lane was posted at the front doors, anxiously rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited for the physician to arrive from the village.
The house had gone ghostly quiet. Lane stood in the square of light spilling out onto the low stone steps that led up to the house. He looked like an actor on stage, waiting nervously to take his cue.
“There you are!” Lane slumped forward at the sight of his friend. “The day guests have departed, off to whisper about this to anyone who will listen in London, I’m sure. Everyone else is abed. One never knows who one’s true friends are until something like this happens. They were content enough to eat our food and toast to our happiness, and now they are equally glad to pick through our lives like vultures. Thank God for the rare, constant friend,” said Lane, clapping him on the shoulder. “Say, where have you been?”
“Hunting for Pimm, but I’ve come up short,” he said. I, not we. There was enough scandal fodder on offer. Nobody needed to hear about them getting stuck in a brandy cupboard, and Lane had enough on his plate already. “The search continues in the morning.” We, not I.Hopefully.“Have the staff flushed him out?”
“I’m afraid not,” Lane murmured, eyes wandering back tothe drive, back to the empty space where he hoped the physician would appear. “What has gotten into him?”
“Desperation,” Bridger replied in a dark rasp. “He knows he should be penned up at Fletcher like a loose hog, but he’s always had a wild nature. He rages against the inevitable. Father needs him, and I need him to look after Father, and Pimm never does what he’s told.”
“After everything, after…” Lane’s thought meandered, and he rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. There was a bluish, ill cast to his face that Bridger disliked. “Blazes, he won’t show his face around here again, I’ll wager you that.”
“Not willingly.” Bridger waved that away and guided Lane back inside to where it was at least a bit cheerier in the candlelight. “Let me worry about Pimm, yes? Here, Ann wanted you to have this.”
Bridger produced the note Margaret had entrusted him with and offered it solemnly to his friend.
“And how did you get it?”
“Your cousin. She was meant to deliver it earlier in the evening, but you ran off to tend to Ann before she could do it.”
Lane tore open the note, reading it silently, his lips forming the words. His eyes softened and his shoulders lowered, the hard-coiled knot of nerves in his back unwinding all at once. “Oh, my darling,” he murmured. Bridger couldn’t help but share in his friend’s relief as Lane handed him the tiny slip of paper. It simply read:
Trust that your heart knows the answer.
