Page 57 of Much Ado About Margaret
“I ask myself the same question,” said Maggie, her gaze drawn back to the flames. The house smelled like rising bread, yeasty, bright, and soothing, enhanced by the profusion of dried herbs hanging on hooks above the hearth. The blanket covering two elderly ginger cats rose and fell, the cloth draped over a deep basket, giving the appearance of a pie bubbling as it cooked. Their purring snores rolled beneath the snap and pop of the fire. Maggie stared down at her sad rabbit, ready to give up on it entirely. Maybe Winny could unpick it and fix the shape, if ever she was allowed to go home.
“You are too hard on yourself.” Beatrice sighed, returning to her soup. “Or else, I cannot find fault with you. If you would rather keep your secrets close, then—”
“There was a man,” Maggie blurted out. She clutched the sewing in her lap and gasped, the needle pricking her thumb. A bead of blood oozed out, and she was almost grateful for it, for that tiny, human pain. Things varied so little day-to-day, trapped in Eliza’s gaudy, gilded cage, that feeling anything was a thrill.
During her visits with Beatrice, she had spent hours describing her childhood, assuring the old woman that Mr. Arden had been a doting father. She never went to sleep without first having a bedtime story, and during those same bedtime stories, her father described the unknown years of Shakespeare’s life. Nobody really knew what his early time in London was like. The time between 1585 and 1592 was something of a blank. The Lost Years, they were called. That phrase had stayed with Margaret from the instant she first heard it. The Lost Years. It felt like what she was living now—the time between seeing one’s destiny and actually getting to live it.
The second part ofHenry VIsprang to mind—For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation.
Beatrice waited, like all smart women, knowing more would come if it was meant to. Sticking her pricked thumb between her lips, Maggie turned and faced her aunt. It was impossible not to see the resemblance between them. Illness, age, and hard living had given her aunt a sunken appearance, her hair thin, the skin beneath it marked with orange splotches. But their eyes danced with the same blue embers, their mouths lifted in the same bemused smile, and it was so like looking in a mirror to the future—she beheld herself an old maid, leaping the years that might be filled with her own style of happiness. Beatrice had been solitary but not alone, and her stories were never tinged with regret.
“I told you Aunt Eliza has unofficially assumed myguardianship to shop me around to London society,” Maggie said slowly. “And that is true. But I did not tell you why she is so strict and overbearing—there was a man this summer, the first man I have ever met who matched me in wit. He is handsome, to be sure, but it was his humor and intelligence that captured me. We talked about all the things I love for hours—Scott, Cowper, Edgeworth. Poetry, biography, prose…he could speak to all of it, and we passed a single perfect evening together. Perfect for me, but my aunt had other feelings.”
Leaning back, Beatrice nodded. “Your family did not approve of him.”
“Neither of us have money,” Maggie replied with a dry chuckle. “After Father died, we had scarcely five hundred pounds between us. With three girls grown, you can imagine how far that goes, and how little inducement there is to marry us beyond our charms and looks. Mosely Cottage is not ours, but my aunt’s, and she is the ruler of our little world. Without her charity…”
“Poor, dear heart,” said Beatrice. “I’m sure you weighed the costs.”
“I did. Impossible, unthinkable, to harm my innocent sisters. But believe me, I have considered changing my mind every day. Every minute.”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Smith arriving, a fluffy blue bonnet in her hands. She was a small woman, cheerfully rounded, apples in her cheeks, and with an unflinchingly rosy disposition. “You wished for me to remind you of the noon hour,” said Mrs. Smith from the doorway.
“Of course!” Maggie had lost track of the time. She leapt up and placed her sewing in the small basket near her feet. The cats stirred and turned over in their bed by the fire. “I’m sorry, Beatrice, I must leave you early today. My friend and sister are arriving today. They stay a fortnight, and I’m sure they will want to accompany me next Friday, if that is agreeable.”
“We would be delighted,” Mrs. Smith cried.
“Your sister?” Beatrice smiled serenely. “Yes, dear, I so wish to meet her.”
“Then I will see you both very soon.” Maggie went to embrace her aunt, troubled by the frailty of her body. She lingered there, then left the cozy row house and took the carriage that was waiting for her. An almost unbearable impulse rose in her to tell the driver to take her not to Mayfair, but to Paternoster Row in St.Paul’s Churchyard. She remembered addressing theKillbridemanuscript to Dockarty & Co. She knew where Bridger would be. That only made it harder. Sicker.
Maggie sat in the carriage with her face in her hands. It was foolish to talk about him. Mrs. Smith might have overheard and mentioned it to Aunt Eliza. Wild, terrible possibilities unspooled before her, and more, a reckless urge to throw all the terrible days of sacrifice away and go to him.
The trees outside the Burtons’ Mount Street home were dressed in scarlet and bronze. It was a cool but pleasant day, and a few intrepid leaves had begun their seasonal plunge. Maggie hurried up the steps and entered through the footmen-held doors, nearly dropping her basket, discovering Violet and Ann had preceded her by a heartbeat. She was almost carried off her feet by their explosive affection. Violet nuzzled into her shoulder, squeezing her tight while the footmen looked on with pinched faces. This was not the sort of greeting often exchanged in the pristine marbled foyer of the Burton townhouse. Mr. Burton had never witnessed an overt display of affection he couldn’t sneer at.
“You look horrible!” Violet shrieked, holding up the limp curls poking out of Maggie’s bonnet. “What have they done to you? Are they feeding you? Where is our aunt? This is intolerable! I will sweep you from this house myself and stuff you full of pastries until you burst!”
Maggie withdrew, almost lightheaded with joy. “Even such nastiness could not diminish my happiness. You are both most, most welcome!”
“Your letters are depressing, Maggie. I hate them,” Violet went on. She lowered her voice and glanced toward the receiving hall. Mrs. Burton had not yet appeared. “Show her what you have brought, Ann. I cannot stand it another moment.”
Ann pursed her lips and turned to Fanny, who had traveled with them to attend Ann. From a small case, Fanny withdrew a wrapped square and handed it to her mistress. “I thought Violet would throw herself from the carriage and pull it herself, such was her eagerness.”
“How is Lane?” asked Maggie, hugging the gift against her chest. The paper was plain and brown, but it retained a pleasing scent of leather.
“Forget him, who could possibly care about Lane right now?” Violet threw up her hands. “Look to your gift, sister. I beseech you.”
“She’s right,” said Ann with an amused sigh. “Even I must admit Lane is far less interesting than the contents.” She leaned in and whispered sensibly, “He has gone ahead to our lodgings, but bids me promise that we will all dine together this evening.”
“Was that so hard?” Maggie, under intense scrutiny, picked at the edges of the paper wrapping, then pulled it free. “I cannot imagine what requires this much urgency. You both look as if the Spear of Destiny is within.”
Giggling with mad delight, Violet murmured, “She is not far off the mark, is she?”
“It has been a long, sad day, and I am very tired, but if you both insist…” Maggie realized then that her hands were quite weak, and her fingers ached. Perhaps Violet was right; she wasn’t eating properly. The paper fell away, revealing a gleaming, beautiful, blue, marbled leather-bound book. As she cracked open the fragrant new cover, her heart stopped in her throat. She thought she might faint and choke as she digested the text.
THE KILLBRIDE.
A NOVEL.
