Page 15 of Much Ado About Margaret
“Miss Regina Applethwaite,” Ann introduced, passing off the lovely lady in something of a rush. “May I present Miss Margaret Arden? Regina was desirous to meet you, Maggie. She has heard of your great affection for books and the art of writing.”
Maggie brightened, eager, and curtsied politely. She knew with just a glance that Miss Applethwaite was rich, accomplished, and much sought-after. Rumors had circulated about her family’s precipitous rise, a fortune in trade contracts pulling Regina out of obscurity. Money or none, she had the air of a woman who had always been beautiful and always known it. There was a controlled, swanlike bearing to her that Maggie both admired and envied, for she sketched poorly, played badly, sang passionately but with questionable skill, and would nevercall her stitches perfect. All of her time and love had gone into her family and her books, and her accomplishments reflected as much.
“I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance,” said Regina as Ann breezed away, the unquestionable lady of the hour. “And it appears I have done so just in time.”
“Just in time?” Maggie asked, giving the lady her undivided attention.
Regina folded her hands together prettily, casting an icy glance around. Through the window of the ballroom, she spied Mr. Bridger Darrow, and her eyes lingered there for a deliberate heartbeat. “Come closer, Miss Arden. What I have to say should only be said in confidence.”
Maggie inched closer, breathing in the lady’s pristine lily of the valley scent.
“I observed you and Mr. Darrow speaking at the breakfast table,” Regina murmured, thin eyebrows tented. “And I must warn you, as one who knows him well, you must guard your heart against any overtures he makes. Whatever delicate compliments he pays, whatever oaths he swears, he has nothing but disdain for women like you and me.”
7
The violence of either grief or joy
Their own enactures with themselves destroy.
Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2
The visitor came at a quarter to five, just after tea. Bridger sprang out of his chair, crossed the guest room with swift, silent strides, and pressed himself against the wall to the left of the door.
He left the found pages of Margaret Arden’s book on the little table near the balcony where he had been sitting, revisiting her words. Poring over them, actually, if he were to be honest.
Well. It was only a matter of time before Pimm retaliated. His brother was an oaf, but an oaf with pride who wouldn’t take the punch as it was intended—as a warning. No, Pimm would view it as a challenge. It had ever been thus, particularly as boys, though in those days, Pimm was the one doing the hair pulling, kicking, and punching. He often tried to goad Bridger into scraps, while Bridger preferred to read either in the safety and comfort of the family’s library or under hisfavorite tree, whichever kept him farthest from Pimm and their father. Earlier, Lane’s valet had informed Bridger that his brother was not there to be collected or coaxed when staff searched near the chapel. The brothers were sharing a set of rooms with a connecting door, and there had been silence on the other side of that door, indicating Pimm was out. Likely, Pimm had retreated somewhere to lick his wounds and formulate a plan, the loose details of which he enacted at this very moment.
Bridger quelled a sigh. Sometimes he wished Pimm was more prone to surprising him—at least, in a small way, it indicated he could one day change for the better. Instead, and as expected, Pimm thumped clumsily on the door. A smarter man would have at least tried to mimic the staff’s way of coming and going, but no, Pimm slammed his ham hock of a fist against the door, once, twice, before Bridger leaned forward, gave a quick tug on the handle, and let his brother crash inside.
“That was a cheap go,” Pimm was muttering, spinning to locate his brother. He had the unsteady, toddler looseness of a man deep in his cups. “I’ll get you back for that, brother.”
He meant the punch, of course. And if his bloodshot, wild eyes were any indication, Pimm was still in that moment, still in the middle of being struck, the shock and pain and humiliation as real and confining as bars on a cage.
“I’d rather not thump you again,” Bridger warned, easily dodging a sloppy attempt from his brother. “But I will if you insist.”
“Ha! Little brother! Little…brother…Come here…” He was drunker than Bridger initially thought. Red-faced and sweating, Pimm barreled toward him. It was abrupt enough to catch him off guard. The two men careened across the room, upsetting a delicate side table, the vase upon it, before slamming into the far wall, the top of Pimm’s head lodged up under Bridger’s throat. He briefly saw stars, the flare of panic frombeing choked flooding his body with vigor. Burly and volatile, Pimm had engaged in his fair share of brawls, but Bridger was a military man. He had seen men die in ways he could never forget. Little remained of his and Lane’s light dragoon regiment; most of those spared by the battlefield had taken their own lives in ways fast or slow, either with a rifle or the bottle. Pimm’s skull digging into his chest seemed to blot out the present, returning him to a man he no longer wanted to be.
There were distant shouts and the reek of gun smoke, bleak ghosts on the edge of memory that plunged him deeper into the rage rising like a squall. Just memories, just hateful memories…
He grabbed his brother by the ears and twisted, hard, until Pimm cried out and sank down. As he lowered, Bridger brought his right knee up, just hard enough to make his brother regret ramming into him in the first place. Knee met jaw, and Pimm rolled toward the wall, the liquor roaring through his blood keeping him from collapsing. Bridger wasn’t interested in a prolonged fight; he snatched up the fallen vase from the side table and smashed it over Pimm’s head.
Lane arrived not long after to find Bridger smoking a pipe, brooding in a chair, long legs stretched out before him, not far from where his brother lay tied up and gagged.
Head down, holding two cravats in his one hand, Lane was too busy explaining his fashion dilemma to notice the quasi-hostage-taking before him. “Do you know, I quite prefer this blue with the diamonds, but Ann insists the yellow is better suited to our costumes—oh.Oh.Blazes, Bridger, what on earth happened? Is he all right? Are you?”
Lane stared down at Pimm, nearly stumbling over him. The man had gone to sleep after a while, coaxed into unconsciousness by the alcohol that had fueled his initial inclination to storm the room.
Bridger took a draw from his pipe and let the smoke curlout of his nostrils. “I’m not proud of it,” he murmured. “And yes, I’m only lightly bruised. Pimm…well, he’ll sleep it off.”
“A relief, to be sure. What do you plan to do with him?”
“Send him back to Fletcher, naturally. Under his own power, preferably, like this if I must.” The tobacco was doing nothing to address the headache blooming steadily across the back of his head. Bridger rubbed the base of his skull. “He stumbled in here, dead-drunk, and thought it would be wise to push me up against a wall.” He sighed and nodded toward the broken vase near the site of the incident. “And, um, apologies for the vase.”
“Mother has so many, I hardly think she’ll notice.” Lane lowered the cravats, frowning down at Pimm for a prolonged moment. “It’s like he doesn’t know you at all.”
Snorting, Bridger sat forward, propping his forearms on his thighs. “He doesn’t. He had one thing right in that churchyard—I haven’t been around for him to know. Not for him, not for Father…” His eyes settled near Lane’s shoes. “Not for you.”
Sidestepping Pimm, Lane came to stand near him, placing a gentle hand and both cravats on his shoulder. “You’re here now. So, blue or yellow?”
