Page 13 of Much Ado About Margaret
“To hell with Father,” Pimm muttered. “And to hell with you.”
Bridger’s hands stopped pulsing, both becoming tight fists. Stumbling, Pimm turned, hurling himself up the shallow hill, but not before colliding headlong into the party walking ahead of them. There was a brief cry of surprise, and the bright shifting of bonnets and sleeves and gloves as the three ladies startled like a flock of exotic birds. Pimm fell against the rightmost lady, who swiveled, and half caught him by the arm as he started to go down.
It was Miss Arden—Margaret—who was unlucky enough to bear the brunt of his weight. But she fought to keep her feet even as lurching, monstrous Pimm threatened to drag her down to the cobbles. Her eyes flew to Bridger’s, and she stalled, briefly confused, then angry.
Bridger held her gaze. “Madam, my apologies, if you would hold him just there…”
And she did, eyebrows lifting as Bridger took two swift steps, swung, and punched his brother squarely in the jaw. Margaret let go at the perfect moment, jumping back, letting Pimm fall to the ground like a sack of bricks.
That drew the expected gasps and whispers. Margaret stood staring at him, stunned, then moved only to grab Pimm’s hat before it could roll down the hill. Her sisters fluttered behind her, flanking for support. The rest of the world returned again, his focused rage flattening, people and objects sketching themselves back in. And there, beautiful, flustered, was Miss Arden. Blood pounded in his head. She would only hate him more now.
Margaret pressed her lips together and handed him Pimm’s hat.
“It gives me no pleasure to be your accomplice, sir,” she said, breathing hard. “But he did step on me rudely.”
6
Get thee a good husband,
and use him as he uses thee.
All’s Well That Ends Well, Act 1, Scene 1
“Someone will collect him, surely.” The woman sitting beside Maggie at breakfast sounded distraught. “They can’t just leave him on the road like that, can they? It could rain!”
Aghastdescribed the general mood of the guests as the breads, sweet rolls, soft, decadent eggs, and mountains of roast capon and succulent tongue were devoured. The long tables were arranged under the intensifying glow of sunshine burning in through the tall windows that looked out onto the veranda. There, the pavilions, hung with bunting, garlands, and banners, promised even more excitement. The red patterned carpets and lush curtains of the dining room made it feel as if they were satiating themselves inside a polished garnet.
There was an empty seat across from Maggie as she carefully sipped her chocolate and moved a bit of food around her plate. Everyone was in an uproar about Paul Darrow beingattacked by his brother, but opinions were split—some were certain he deserved it but decried the uncivilized nature of the act; others were calling Bridger Darrow all manner of unkind things.
Violet and Winny, seated near her, came down on their own side—that he had almost crushed Maggie into a paste and therefore got what was coming to him. Maggie had never seen anyone lose control like that and, in the pit of her stomach, had to admit to herself it was thrilling. Papa had recalled many such brawls from his naval service, though of course fights were forbidden, and punished, but men trapped together on a ship for months at a time were prone tovehementdisagreement. The ins and outs of the argument that led to this specific punch eluded her, but she was picking up bits and pieces from the gossips working tirelessly at the breakfast tables.
“It sounds as if he left a terrible situation behind in Bath,” whispered Violet, repeating to her what had been repeated to Winny. The information traveled in a tittering chain over clinking porcelain and silver. Meanwhile, at the end of the table, Bridger Darrow leaned down to speak with Lane. Maggie’s eyes traveled back to the suspiciously vacant chair across from her, then to Ann, who, at the other end of the table, caught her eye and grinned. Then, Bridger Darrow finished speaking with Lane and strode to that very chair, excusing himself to those around him as he removed his gloves and sat.
There was a withdrawn, hunted air about him.
At once, the whispers changed like the sudden redirection of the wind. All mentions of “Darrow” ceased as nervous smiles were hastily offered and plastered in place. Maggie glared around at it with naked disdain until she noticed Aunt Eliza observing her, and she, too, smiled, but only down at her cup of chocolate.
Mr. Darrow attacked a breast of capon with the single-mindedness of a man determined not to be perceived. Maggiejoined him, alarmed at the red marks on his knuckles but unable to look away from them.
The whispering winds ebbed and flowed, and to her mortification, returned to the subject she had hoped they would avoid.
Her.
“I found a page lodged in my balcony,” said the woman who had just been fretting about rain. Her voice rose and fell like a singer practicing scales. Even half turned away from Maggie, it was easy enough to overhear her stage-whispering to her companion. “A lot of nonsense about a woman wearing trousers on a boat. Mr. Carlton told me not to read it, for he heard the content was not at all for ladies.”
“It is sabotage, I tell you!” said the woman’s companion. “And one need hardly wonder why. Ann Graddock has her detractors, you know, given her origin. Not me! Of course, but there are detractors—”
“Heavens, no, not you! Nor I!”
“No, never, you should never hear me disparaging Miss Graddock.”
“Mrs. Richmond,” Maggie remarked dryly and with a lengthy sigh. “Mrs. Ann Richmond, you mean.”
“Yes, thank you, my dear, thank you,” said the first woman, whom Maggie had been introduced to that morning. She had already forgotten the lady’s name. Maggie’s interruption was immediately forgotten. “There were objections, at first, among the family. Perhaps those objections persist.”
Maggie shifted, angry on Ann’s behalf. Ann had worked hard to win the hearts and minds of London society after arriving from India with her father, James Lysander Graddock. An East India Company resident, he had fallen hopelessly in love with a Lakhnau courtier named Nourin. Ann was soon born to them and named Halima Rizvi, choosing to restyle herself as Ann Graddock when she later arrived in England.
“Scattering filth all over the estate the day before the wedding,” the woman continued, fanning herself. “It can only be to embarrass the bride! How awful! Poor Mrs. Graddock—Richmond.”
