Page 5 of Much Ado About Margaret
It was best to stay the course and move forward with his current plan. Bridger managed a dry chuckle. “I suppose, like a real fool, I’m betting it all on a book.”
Fanciful nonsense, his father would call it.
Harris cocked a brow. “Oh? Then the business in London is going well?”
“It will be,” Bridger assured him. “I’ve just acquired a promising manuscript, something very forthright, modern, and I’m convinced it will be popular. The writer is new, which is a risk, but a young talent well cultivated is always worth pursuing. It isn’t a mysterious fortune falling out of the sky, but I won’t let my family’s future slip away without a fight.”
He glanced at his father, who was unmoving and silent. Bridger felt the ghost of his mother lingering about them, her sweetness haunting the halls of Fletcher like a whisper offading ladies’ perfume. She had been so good to them, gentle and indulgent, which exacerbated his father’s wrath—boys were carved into men with strict standards and beatings, or so Mr. Darrow believed.
Harris took a few steps toward him and clapped Bridger on the shoulder. “That is encouraging to hear, very encouraging. I should tell you, before your father became ill, he made certain sentimental statements. Sentimental for him, anyway. He had regrets about the way things were with you boys, and I know for certain he wished he had taken a firmer hand.”
Bridger stared at his father. Afirmerhand? What other kind did Mr. Darrow have? He had never been permissive nor understanding. He had never expressed pride in either of his sons, not when Bridger went to fight in France, not when he returned, alive but rattled to his core, not when he took over his mentor’s publishing business. And still, Bridger was here, and he would save them all while his brother swaggered off to beg for money he didn’t deserve to cover debts that were entirely unnecessary.
That reminded him: Lane Richmond. His brother wasn’t away trying to swindle money from just anyone, but from the kindest man in England. Lane was, and Bridger thought this with all due fondness for his best friend, a hopelessly soft man. Newborn puppies had harder edges.
“I agree, Harris, that we should keep a smaller staff,” said Bridger, tugging on the bottom of his waistcoat once more, threatening to unravel the threads there, a spike of panic rising in his chest. He had to reach Pressmore before Pimm did more damage to the family’s reputation. And Lane! Sweet, naïve Lane…he had to be protected, always, but specifically now as he stepped into married life. “I trust you will make the appropriate changes but do keep me apprised. If all goes well, my brother will return here within a fortnight and stay where he is told to stay while I get our affairs in order.”
Harris looked down at the floor and sighed as if Bridger had just recalled a meandering but rather pleasant dream.
“And what about you, Harris?” asked Bridger. “When was the last time you were compensated?”
The solicitor shrugged his narrow shoulders, looking at Mr. Darrow and smiling as if to share a private joke. “I’m a man of my word. I promised your father I would look after things when his health started to decline, and I intend to do just that. I won’t abandon him now.”
Then perhaps you are a better man than I.
Harris drew in a long breath. “It will get worse before it gets better.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Bridger replied, going to the door. Again, that same sad smile from Harris, not patronizing but almost.
“It’s a pity you have to face this all alone,” said Harris. “The steady companionship of a wife would make it all easier to endure. My own Mrs. Harris is such a comfort to me when life takes a plunge.”
Bridger paused at the door, impatient and slightly bothered. “My family stands at the brink, Harris, and you want me to worry aboutlove?”
“Forgive me—being here, being with your father, it sends me into a maudlin state, yet it can’t be helped.” Harris shrugged and patted Mr. Darrow on the shoulder. Bridger’s father jumped, startled, and looked at Harris as if he hadn’t noticed him before. “Seeing his condition, it makes me think of all the regrets, large and small, that can haunt a man if he isn’t mindful of time passing him by.”
“I didn’t take you for a poet, Harris,” said Bridger. The two men by the desk looked suddenly small, distant, and his chest ached with vague longing. He didn’t understand it. He hated being around his father but leaving him was still difficult. It was fear, not premonition, he told himself, that insisted thiswould be the last time he saw the man alive. “I wish such notions were worth a farthing, and maybe they should be. If so, we might sell them, and put my anxieties to rest. As it stands, action is required. Do what you can for my father and leave Pimm to me.”
Harris didn’t stop him or argue, just bid him good day and gazed out the window.
In a dark mood, Bridger fended off the housekeeper’s pleas to stay; Fletcher Estate felt like it was collapsing in on him, threatening to trap him forever if he didn’t saddle up and leave. His departed mother’s sad eyes watched him from every vacant corner. If he lingered, he would say something he didn’t mean to someone who was only trying to be hospitable. In the war, Bridger had learned to master his outbursts; the Darrow men were cursed with short tempers, something his father considered a strength but Bridger knew in his heart to be a weakness. He had arrived from London tired, and he was tired as he started down the road once more. It didn’t matter; his best and only friend in the world was getting married, and Pimm was the exact sort of rascal that could single-handedly ruin an otherwise joyous event.
Bridger slammed his hat down on his head, lowered his chin, and drove his horse hard. Pebbles flew. The wind whistled and tore. The trees along the lane became a verdant blur. It didn’t escape his notice that it all felt a little too much like trying to escape—maybe Harris was right. Maybe he did need more than one friend, more than just his business; maybe he should have someone to love lest he end up like his father, alone and avoided, shut up in a house that slowly went dark, room by empty room.
3
Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,
And so am come abroad to see the world.
The Taming of the Shrew, Act 1, Scene 2
The journey to Pressmore for Cousin Lane’s wedding had been bumpy and arduous, a test of endurance for both Maggie’s backside and her spirit. She had traveled with her aunt Eliza (Mrs. Burton), as well as Violet and Winny, who chatted genially about the countryside, the wedding, and Cousin Lane’s enchanting bride in between painful spells of Aunt Eliza glaring a hole into the side of Maggie’s cheek.
Her aunt had been understandably scandalized by Maggie’s behavior at the salon. Mr. Darrow must have complained to someone, who passed it along to someone else, who gossiped to Aunt Eliza’s favorite sewing companion, who of course told Eliza herself about Maggie’s ill-fated literary ambush of Mr. Bridger Darrow. And during the tense carriage ride, while Aunt Eliza lectured about propriety, good sense, composure, and meekness, Maggie was busy formulating her next book.
It was about the satisfying downfall of a handsome yetirritating man in publishing who came to ruin over the glamorous and intelligent female writer he spurned. Whether Mr. Darrow knew it or not, he had made a powerful nemesis in Maggie, who refused to admit her behavior had been rude and out of line. It was just one conversation about a book, why all the fuss? Anyway. When they at last reached Pressmore, Aunt Eliza made sure to pull Maggie aside before she could disappear into the far-spreading gardens of the estate.
Aunt Eliza wasn’t the only one who had married well; in fact, it was just their mother that had chosen with her heart and not her “sensible” mind. Their father had been a navy man, not rich, not poor, but certainly no one of stature beside Aunt Eliza’s husband, or the venerable gentleman that owned Pressmore. Eliza noticed her niece drinking in the scenery and breathing deeply of the luxurious gardens and found another chance to make her point.
