Page 54 of Much Ado About Margaret
“No, I can’t accept anything more from you.” Bridger leanedback against the pillar, heedless of the wet plants. “I shall write to her and explain all, and hope that I could be forgiven.”
“Your father died, that’s hardly your fault.”
“But I could have demonstrated more restraint,” said Bridger, casting a wary eye toward the windows of the house. A cold, numb feeling spread through his body. The fury that had seared through him a moment before would have been welcome, but now he felt the old, lonely feelings returning. Lane had his wealth and his beautiful wife and his sprawling estate, and Bridger had nothing but a single manuscript that might or might not prove successful.
“If I am not welcome at Pressmore, then I will trouble you no longer,” he said, securing his hat and striding back toward the front of the house.
“I am sorry, old friend.” Lane followed, sounding harried. “Will you receive me in London? It would be jolly to be there once the roads are better.”
Jolly. Bridger tried not to sneer at the word. “Of course,” he said, stiff. “I will always receive you.”
The footman brought his horse again, wearing a perplexed expression at Mr. Darrow leaving so soon. He had swung up into the saddle when a blur of yellow silk streaked across the gravel toward him. Ann had come, her jacket half-buttoned and her bonnet ribbons flying. She went on tiptoes and pressed a wrapped bundle into his hands.
“I found this in her guest chamber,” said Ann. She offered a sympathetic smile, one he was too chilled to accept. “My heart told me you should have it. Pray, when will we see you again?”
“Good day, Mrs. Richmond,” he told her, and galloped away.
When he reached Cray Arches, he rested his horse and took a room at the Gull and Knave to torment himself. The proprietor and boy fell all over themselves to be courteous and did not hesitate to oblige him when he asked for the same quarters as last time. He drank too much wine downstairs, then retiredto dry himself out by the fire in the room that should have been theirs. He unwrapped the bundle from Ann, discovering four very different pieces of parchment. One was a note from Regina to Margaret, warning her about Bridger’s cruelties and deficiencies. He was already blank with sadness, but somehow her words found a way to knife beneath the leathery crust of loss and prick flesh.
He assured me that no one would ever be interested in what I had to say, that the mind of a woman was better occupied with painting tables and decorating bonnets, and that the true subtleties of literary achievement were attainable by men alone. Upon my honor, he said it, and I have the letters still to prove it.
Bridger lowered the letter to his lap and grimaced. When he could stomach it, he looked to the next item. It was quite obviously a page taken from a longer diary entry, but Ann had chosen the relevant piece.
If I could marry a man like Mr. Darrow, a man who understands the importance of books, the good they can do, the magic they create, then I might be content after all—to make my family proud without packing my heart away in a dark and dusty room, that is my dearest wish. There is no Margaret Arden without her writing and her books. One day, that will prove a boon, not a burden.
Lastly, Ann had included the first page of Margaret’s book, the only one displaying her name, and the one he had hoped to return to her the night of the masquerade. It was torn raggedly in two.
25
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
Twelfth Night, Act 3, Scene 1
August
His new German apprentice, Bastian, hovered at the door, tapping his leg with the letter in his left hand. He insisted on wearing the strangest little hat, Bastian, even indoors, but he was so willing and so obedient Bridger just let him do it. The boy had been sent out to acquire pastries for tea and returned with a basket of treats in one hand, the letter in the other.
“I’m sure the seedcakes will do, Bastian. Neeve will be here any moment and I’d rather your backside not be the thing that greets him.” Bridger scarcely looked up from the papers stacked on his desk, his patience wearing thin.
“Another letter returned, sir, is all,” said the boy. Bastian picked his way across the cramped office, dodging the furniture and bookcases that made the space feel even tinier. Said letter was tossed onto his desk, then the apprentice made a curt little bow and left with the basket of seedcakes.
“Tell Maria lemon and milk with the tea, please,” he called after him. The unopened letter on the desk pulsed like red eyes in the darkness. He had to look, even if he didn’t want to. And as expected, and feared, it was his latest letter to Miss Arden, sent to her aunt’s home in Mayfair and rejected. A man had to hold himself to things, and he had promised himself that if this one came back, too, then it was really over.
And there it was. Proof of her indifference. Proof that it was time for hope to die.
Bridger scooped up the message and pulled a ring of keys out of the top drawer of his desk. He unlocked the bottom right drawer, nudged it open with the toe of his boot, and dropped the letter inside. It nestled down beside other cherished treasures—a pair of ruined, stained lady’s gloves, a few folded notes, and a stack of unread letters, brothers to the one that had just landed. Under it all, the thick stack of pages comprising Miss Arden’sThe Killbride,sent to him many months earlier and never fully read. Well, not until recently. And then, repeatedly.
There was a chime somewhere in the building. Bastian ran hastily through his office, scooting like a panicked lapdog from one door to the other, huffing and puffing.
Bridger slid out from behind his desk and pulled down his waistcoat. Heartbroken or otherwise, he had a job to do. And anyway, it was good to have work. Passionate employment could sustain a man for years; he had seen it be so with John Dockarty. He decided not to consider that John died quite alone, leaving everything to Bridger.Oh God, am I doomed to pass this all to Bastian and his ridiculous hat?Indeed, Bastian reappeared a moment later, hat in hand, bouncing up and down like a song sparrow. He had the oddest expression on his milky little face. It was like he had encountered a ghost.
“What is the matter with you?” Bridger demanded.
“G. R. Neeve is h-here, sir, at least, itshouldbe them.”
“Should be?”
“It’s alady.”
