Page 6 of Much Ado About Margaret
“My sister did well for herself when she won Mr. Richmond, for he was even richer than my Mr. Burton,” said Aunt Eliza, head high. “If you’re going to expose yourself to public ridicule, at least do it in pursuit of a man richer than Mr. Bridger Darrow.”
Maggie pursed her lips. “I was not pursuing him, not for marriage!”
“Mm.” Her aunt’s attention drifted to the house, as if she were only half listening. “Though he does possess a stately bearing. Some say the elder Darrow male is the more attractive of the two, but there is a refinement about the younger that I find pleasing. No matter, such considerations are not your concern. It is better to be seduced by the promise of security, not mere countenance.”
Yes, I should content myself with the Mr. Gainswells of the world with their putrid feet.
Aunt Eliza smiled over her head at the house. “Would you not enjoy being mistress of such a wonderous place?”
I am,thought Maggie.I’m mistress of any expansive estate I want when I write it into being.She knew not to say as much.
“I will admit the gardens are most inspiring,” she replied.
“Let them inspire you toward the sort of husband that might provide just such a home.” Aunt Eliza caught Maggie’s hand before she could run off. Winny and Violet waited off to the side while the Pressmore staff unloaded their luggage and carried it to the main house, which loomed like a confection dressed in sugared flowers. “Do not disappoint me again, Margaret. Your mother might not be here, but I am as good as her eyes and ears. I expect you to carry yourself like the refined young lady I am certain you can be. I don’t want to hear your name attached to even a whiff of scandal. If there are introductions to be made—if—I will inform you. Do we understand each other?”
Maggie swallowed hard. “We do, Aunt Eliza.”
Winny and Violet had gotten bored waiting for her and had disappeared by the time her aunt marched away with her slow, stately steps. Other coaches were arriving, filling the manicured drive, sending up gouts of dust. Maggie wandered a few steps toward the front door but changed her mind, taking the path leading right that circled the property. The gardens of Pressmore spread out around Maggie like a great patchwork skirt, a comely tangle of cow parsley and wild garlic flowers seamlessly blended into a more deliberate diamond grid of rosebushes and squared hedges. One could easily imagine Titania and Oberon striding through the ivy-covered arches, a retinue of fairies dancing behind them. In those same gardens, many summers ago, Violet had recited one of Puck’s speeches fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream,fireflies twinkling around her like a starlight cloak, while her sisters and cousins lay about on blankets.My mistress with a monster is in love,it began. Maggie would never forget that night; she still recalled most of the lines.
She yearned for those times, when dreams felt catchable,and nobody spoke of husbands or fortunes or the bleak specter of spinsterhood.
While she walked, Maggie loosened the ribbons on her bonnet and let her shawl slide down to her elbows. While her eyes roamed over the hedges and flowers, her head was in the clouds, performing loops around the high expectations Aunt Eliza had set for her, fixating instead on what to call this villain in her new novel. What would she name him? Nothing even rhymed with Bridger. Another black mark next to his idiotic name. It was a pity he was so good-looking. A true waste! Yet a handsome wastrel was a better villain than an ugly one; the twist of the knife was meaner with an Angelo or Iago type thought to be devilishly desirable.
Her sister Winny’s sweet voice flooded her head:You mustn’t let a silly grudge overtake you like this. Pressmore has all the light and grace of heaven itself!
And Winny was right, of course, but Maggie couldn’t stop reliving her exchange with Mr. Darrow. She had received innumerable literary rejections already, but his reaction stung the worst. That she couldn’t put her finger on why made the whole interaction more provoking. Bridger Darrow was stuck in her teeth like a piece of food; if only she could spit him out. But it was a good thing she didn’t try to literally, for a figure appeared at the end of the path, moving swiftly toward her. She recognized her cousin Lane Richmond with his gorgeous head of coppery hair, boyish face, and the left sleeve of his coat pinned up to his shoulder. He had lost his arm in the war, though it hadn’t changed anything about his optimistic demeanor.
As he came toward her, his forehead was wrinkled as if he were puzzling over something serious.
“Lane?” she called, not wanting to disturb him. He was a man on the cusp of marriage, and no doubt there were many details and arrangements cluttering up his thoughts. But as soon as he saw her, his frown vanished.
“Margaret! I was hoping you might have arrived. Come here to me!”
“I’m sure I look rumpled beyond recognition.” Maggie laughed.
“No, no, cousin, you are as angelic as ever. Even the pitted roads couldn’t diminish your halo.” Lane took her by the hand, giving her an exuberant twirl. “Oh, but it has been too long.”
“Hardly six months,” she said, for they had spent Christmas together. Lane had been a balm for them all, for her father’s passing was still fresh then.
“I am hearing all sorts of naughty rumors about you,” he said, laughing and looping his arm through hers. “And yet I know you to be polite and restrained, which makes this gossip rather hard to believe. You must tell me the truth, and then I will be your staunch defender.”
“Is that why you looked troubled just now? Gossip? I hope not, I would never want to imperil your happiness.”
Lane paused, gazing off toward the west, where a trickle of carriages arrived. Pressmore could house some twenty-two or so guests, and would, with more attendees arriving the next day for the wedding itself and the evening masquerade. Those closest to Lane’s family would have the honor of staying at the estate for several days. “No, no,” he muttered, distracted. “That was business between gentlemen. Messy stuff, I’m afraid, but you have cleverly sidestepped my question, cousin. That will not do, you know. I must have your answer.”
Maggie’s brows shot up. “And what have you heard?”
“That you have forfeited your manners all over a ridiculous novel.”
“Have you ever known my stories to be ridiculous?” She gasped and drew back a step.
Lane hurried to correct himself, turning red. “Imaginative and adventurous, but not ridiculous, no. But I have a certain image in my mind, conjured there since a tender age, of you in a corner, scribbling and pondering and getting ink all overyourself. And I remember your father would always come up with the best little tales and riddles to make us smile when someone skinned a knee or suffered an insult. If any of you ladies were to draw the eye of gossips, I assumed it would be Violet.”
That was a more than sensible assumption. They paused under a thick archway over the path winding around the house. There was much commotion and chaos from the carriages and arrivals, but Maggie ignored it, clutching Lane’s hands. “Everything you say is true. But the gossips are right—I have behaved quite badly. I don’t know how to explain it, but I haven’t been myself since Papa died. I put so much of him into this book, so many of his memories and experiences, that I can’t help but vigorously defend it, cherish it, want all the world to read it. It feels…it feels…” Maggie sighed and lowered her head, realizing she was more exhausted from the trip than she had thought. Her eyes filled with tears, but she pushed them back. “It feels like I can keep him alive this way.”
“And here I have gone and called you ridiculous,” said Lane softly. “It’s clear I’ve heard but a part of the story. And it also sounds as if you were not at all interested in causing a scene with my friend Mr. Darrow, but rather were moved in a moment of passion.”
Maggie’s sadness vanished. “I beg your pardon, yourfriend?”
