Page 8 of Much Ado About Margaret
Lane hesitated, glancing at his feet and then at the sky. Darkness and depression glanced off of Lane like the wind-scattered leaves dancing down the tented pavilions. It never stuck. But here, now, just before his wedding, an unusual, serious wrinkle dented his friend’s forehead.
“I did refuse him,” said Lane, at last. “With difficulty. I…forgive me. I enjoy helping where I can, Bridger, and it isn’t a matter of the money itself, we could afford it, but, well, I just thought it best to let Pimm resolve the matter himself. Is that terribly selfish?”
“No, my friend, you did the right thing,” Bridger replied, gratified. “I didn’t endanger my horse getting here over nothing. I wanted to counsel you toward just such a decision.”
“Jolly good, then. Blazes, I felt awful about it, but he didn’t seem too angry at me. Or I’ve seen him angrier. He mentioned another plan to shore things up financially, and I wished him well on it.”
Another plan? Bridger didn’t like the sound of that. “Whatever the problem is this time, I’ll handle it.”
Lane’s frown eased as his fiancée floated out of the French doors attached to the back of the main house. She was like a beacon flashing across the sea, singularly beautiful, with full black hair and a poised, dancerly posture that many women coveted but few cultivated naturally. And Lane’s eyes followed her, clung to her, his chest rising and falling faster just at the sight of Ann.
With great effort, Lane switched his attention back to their discussion. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. He said the family ledgers were, are—”
“—under control,” Bridger finished for him decisively. He knew Lane too well, certain that if he gave him the full picture of their ruined finances, Lane would step in and be the hero. He couldn’t let his friend do that. Lane had saved him too many times, lost his arm doing it in France, and there was only so much one man should owe another. It would shatter Bridger’s heart to feel yet more indebted. Things had gotten out of hand while Bridger was in France and worsened when he returned and settled in London, and while he should have been able to rely on his brother to behave sensibly while he wasgone, that wasn’t reality. No, this was his mess to clean up. Starting with…“Pimm has endangered our legacy with his recklessness, but Father’s solicitor is confident we have time to avoid disaster. Now I just need to keep my brother on a tight leash.” Bridger grumbled under his breath. “If I can evenfindthe hot-blooded hound to slip on the lead…”
“Try the Sapphire Library, it has the best brandy,” said Lane. “In all seriousness, it’s good to hear you have things managed.” He was gazing at Ann again, a subtle blush creeping up his neck. Bridger wondered if he had ever seemed this way to someone else, utterly besotted, so passionate for a woman that it was impossible to hide it. No, there had been fleeting feelings, maybe a genuine attraction, but never this sort of consuming attachment. It looked good on Lane, being lost in love, so much so it almost made Bridger want the same thing.
“Not just managed,” Bridger assured him, with confidence he didn’t entirely feel. They continued toward the veranda and Ann, who was bent at the waist, an unrolled schematic held up for her by a valet. He had to admit, it was a bewitching aspect for her, for any woman, to be displaying such competence and control. Lane deserved to get lost in this moment. Bridger had to sell him on the fitness of the Darrow finances; it wouldn’t do to have his friend overtaken by worries during his wedding. “I’ve acquired a promising manuscript; one I think even John would appreciate.”
John Dockarty had been his mentor in publishing. Their friendship began a decade earlier, when a then-seventeen-year-old Bridger had written to Dockarty in London, praising a collection of stories he had edited and published. Their correspondence continued, with John always pushing for Bridger to leave behind the regiment and pursue his true passion, publishing. He didn’t need to push much harder after Bridger returned from France, worn and desperate for a change. It wasJohn who urged him to sell his commission and use the money to start anew, and John who, childless and unmarried, left Dockarty & Co. to Bridger when a fever took him suddenly.
John had been an exacting man, precise and prickly, and Bridger had always published under his intense guidance. Now that John was gone, he felt immense pressure to uphold the standards of Dockarty & Co., and to make his old mentor proud.
“Would I know the writer?” asked Lane.
“No,” Bridger laughed. “You hate to read.”
“Well!”
“You do. I don’t begrudge you for it, though your cousin might,” said Bridger, needling.
“Ilikeher stories,” said Lane. “You would, too, if you had any sense.”
“Ha! There we are destined to disagree. This is a new writer,” said Bridger, keen to steer the conversation back to his plans. He needed Lane to trust that the Darrow future was secure in his hands. It would be just like Pimm to keep begging and bothering Lane until the softhearted man relented. “G. R. Neeve is his name, and I’m telling you, Lane, I knew within pages that it would be something special, something sensational.”
“You really believe in this,” Lane remarked, studying him. Maybe, thought Bridger, when he talked about this work, he took on that same glow as Lane when he beheld his wife-to-be. “How did you come into possession of the work?”
“Quite out of the clear blue,” said Bridger. Ann had caught sight of them and paused her work to gift them with a bright smile before excusing herself to hurry in their direction. He could practically hear his friend’s heart beating faster. “It arrived on my desk not long after we buried John. I needed it, you know, that little burst of hope.”
“Yes, Ann and I were worried about you.”
“Not unwarranted. My father is in his decline and after losing John…” Bridger blew out a hard breath. He didn’t like to remember that span of months. He was better now, more solid, but it felt like those waves of panic and despair could reappear with any new failure. “I wasn’t myself. And then, like magic, that book arrives, like a miracle worked at the perfect time.”
Lane’s forehead was as wrinkled as a bloodhound’s as he grunted and pouted at Bridger. “First John and now your father. Are you certain you don’t need my help?”
“I’m sure.”
His friend sighed and turned back toward his fiancée.
Ann was motioning at something. Her gaze had been pulled higher, toward the upper levels of the house, and she shaded her eyes against the sun. Then, she pointed, and again, as if at individual birds in a passing flock. Some of the staff stopped their business to watch, gasping and giggling. Lane and Bridger took a few quick strides away from the arches, mimicking Ann’s pose. Against the harsh glare of the sun, it took Bridger a moment to realize that the faded white wings fluttering down from the house were, in fact, pages. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They were soaring out of an unseen window, caught by the breeze and carried this way and that across the property. One, however, floated down toward Bridger, landing in his outstretched hand with what felt like divine purpose.
Like a miracle worked at the perfect time.
Chap. 4,it read, and then:
Honor and horror walking arm in arm, boots sliding through salt water and blood. Fallon’s mind conjured Nelson and Wellesley, Duncan and Howe and Jervis, all the undeniably great men. They loomed and lingered. They watched and judged. By God, were they acting as great men now? With Howard’s arm hanging in pale shreds, with the life pouring out of him, with the bitgoing into his mouth and the surgeon hefting the steel, was this fit to remember? Fit to paint?
When all of this was washed away and he was home again and safe, how would he recount it? Fallon imagined his life as a library, and this volume of feckless gore nestled among the rest, a blood-red binding, a gaping sore. It was not a book he would choose to read, and yet here it was, his life.
