Page 38 of Much Ado About Margaret
The inn shook, a clap of thunder making the present ladies gasp and sit up straighter.
“Has a man come through? About this tall, broad-shouldered but hunched, with a scowl and dark hair? Or in your ledger there, do you see the name Mr. Paul Darrow? It’s urgent that we locate him,” said Bridger, leaning toward the man.
With obvious frustration, the proprietor placed his bulging forearms on top of the messy rows in the ledger. “And what business do you have with him?”
Bridger paused, and Maggie watched his hands open and close as he considered the man’s question. She almost jumpedin for him, but he replied smoothly, “A dear relation of his has taken ill at Pressmore Estate. It’s fallen to me to relay this to him.”
“You?” The proprietor’s black eyes drifted from Bridger to Maggie and lingered there. She tried not to shrink, for he had an imposing aura.
“Indeed, me.” Bridger took a small step in front of her, blocking the man’s view. “And my…wife. Yes, my wife, Mrs. Racburn.”
Wife? Maggie froze. He was making their predicament worse by the second. Her stomach burned and not from hunger; Aunt Eliza was going to strangle her with her own bonnet ribbons when this was discovered. It was like a drumbeat running under everything:he kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed. And when she could tear her mind away from it, it found another avenue of panic, sealing their fate by the minute, the inevitability of being stranded overnight in Cray Arches with Mr. Darrow.
“That make you Mr. Racburn?” The proprietor snorted and scribbled something at the bottom of the ledger.
“It does.”
“No Darrow here that I know of.”
“But any man of that description that—”
“Right.” The proprietor swished his cheeks and smacked his lips, unmoving, his big arms still blocking their view of the books. Her eyes drifted back to the ring on the man’s finger; it was peculiar, out of place amidst his ill-fitting shirt and mended coat. “One room left, Mr. Racburn. I suggest taking it before the next folks step up.”
Bridger’s face had turned bright red, but so had Maggie’s. It was wise to conceal their true names, and it would be the height of impropriety for them to be together that way and unmarried, but it still shocked her. His shade of crimson was different, however, and those fists of his were balling up tighter.Bridger’s jaw worked back and forth, his temper rising to the surface like fire bubbling through a forge.
“Dear husband,perhaps we should simply take the man’s advice,” said Maggie, placing an insistent hand on Bridger’s elbow. He tensed at her touch, then flinched. “The storm is only getting worse, and it would be a long, miserable walk back to Pressmore.”
The doors behind them flew open with a bang. A muddied driver clutching his hat stumbled inside. “Carriage overturned half mile out,” he roared, leaning against the wall. “Roads are flooded, worst I’ve seen in six summers.”
They took the room.
He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed.
The drumming in her head beat on, faster. Maggie told herself it was just a contingency; the rain would ease, and they would find Foster, then return to Pressmore before dark. More thunder boomed outside. Once relieved of their sodden coats, they took a table in the shadowed alcove beneath the stairs, and shillings were exchanged for a bottle of port and some venison in a dark sauce, as well as snail ragout. Bridger couldn’t sit still and kept glancing around, his attention wandering most frequently to the proprietor and the front doors.
“Racburn?” Maggie asked, grateful for the stomach-warming wine that was brought. Maybe if she drank enough of it, she could forget all about the grim fate that awaited her back at the estate. Her fingers were like ice as she tried to spoon sauce into her mouth.
“Hm?” Bridger hadn’t touched his food. He appeared as nervous as she felt.
“Is something the matter?” she asked. “Besides the obvious, I mean.”
“That lout is lying to us,” he growled, glaring at the proprietor once more. He was currently bent double, speaking to a young boy who worked in the kitchens. That same boy,straw-haired and sallow, was making frequent trips up and down, taking things to the rooms upstairs in between tongue-lashings for laziness from the proprietor.
“I’m sure staring at him like that will endear him to us.”
“No, you’re right. I just…Something about this place feels wrong.”
“Perhaps when everyone is drunk, we will have a better chance to pry for information,” Maggie suggested. “Those gentlemen in the corner have been letting the ale flow freely since we walked in. If they saw your brother in the village, they might speak of it with loosened tongues later.”
At that, Bridger fell silent, concentrating on his food for a moment, but only to move it around his plate. He sneaked little glances at her, and Maggie tried not to feel self-conscious about it. The silence was agonizing, so she filled it by talking about what she knew they liked, books. “I’ve recently finished a volume of poetry by William Cowper. Do you know him?”
“I know his work well,” said Bridger, distracted.
She launched into her feelings on the poems, which ones she preferred, and which she felt were lacking. By and by, it drew him out, as she knew it would. Bridger did not hesitate to offer his own view of Cowper’s work, and she found his insights very sharp indeed. They then debated the merits of Ovid, Henry Fielding, Sir Walter Scott, E.T.A. Hoffmann, and marveled at the correspondence between Maria Edgeworth and Scott, and their subsequent friendship. They agreed thatWaverleywas excellent, though Bridger preferred Scott’s poetry, which was a sensible opinion. Maggie asked him, perhaps a bit pleadingly, to describe the bookbinding process more clearly as he had observed it, and he obliged her. His eyes danced as he did so, and the darkness of his mood slipped away. His passion for his work was undeniable, and it enhanced every quality of his face, leading him to smile more, and even rounding out the tone of his voice. It was easy to talk with him, and Maggierealized that hours had flown by before they once again encountered an uneasy silence.
“Thank you,” he told her gruffly, being the one to break that quiet. “For…before…when we first arrived. You were right to intervene.” Bridger nodded discreetly to the gruff bearded proprietor. As the conversation became easier and more animated, they both lost their aversion to eating. When their plates and bowls were empty, more was brought out, Bridger tucking back into his ragout. “He reminds me of my father. Mouth like a bear trap, every word exchanged an offense or inconvenience.”
“I pity your mother.”
