Page 19 of Much Ado About Margaret
Ann shook her head, leading her to a bench, where they sat. “I see Lane’s mother has gotten to you. Maggie, it isn’t selfish to want the happiness that speaks to your heart.”
“My aunts are convincing, convincing in their dislike for my own mother, who obviously disappointed them. It would break me utterly to disappoint my sisters that way. My heart tells me my aunts are well-meaning but misguided, but they have lived more life than I have. I always gave my father’s advice due consideration…” Maggie trailed off, searching the room. If she wasn’t thinking about her book and her vanishing dream, then she was thinking about Mr. Darrow, who had gone from horrible, to intriguing, and back to horrible.
“Torn in a hundred directions!” Ann gasped dramatically behind her mask. “I do not envy you; I had the fortune of finding my Lane before the poking and prodding of elders became too onerous. But who do you look for so urgently?” Stroking Maggie’s gloved hand, her lips curved into a smile. “Could it be Mr. Darrow? I spied your conversation at breakfast, it appeared quite animated.”
There was no point trying to deceive Ann, who was altogether too sharp. “I do look for him. I don’t know why. Every time we meet, I come away thinking differently of him.” If Regina was Ann’s good friend, she did not want to speak badly of her or gossip, and so kept the details of their discussion to herself.
“He is a man of good humor and better sense, I think, though prone to isolation. There is a sadness about him I have never understood, but no man is perfect and any who claims to be is proved deficient.”
“I thought my opinion of him was improving,” Maggie said slowly. “But I have heard information that gives me pause.”
Ann leaned in to her, nodding. “You have already been heaped with thoughts and advice, but—do forgive me—here is rather more: Your own mind must always be the decider. What, dear Maggie, doyouthink?”
It was hard to be clearheaded among the music, the twinkling lights, and the warmth of so many bodies clumping up to chat and dance. But Maggie drew in a deep breath, staring down the length of the pillared gallery with her heart set on calmness. In and out, her chest rose and fell, and she felt the tumult of the party return to its former magic, when it was beguiling and inviting, rather than too much. By and by her eyes settled on a man striding toward them, cutting a fine figure in a gray coat trimmed in muted gold, an ivory cravat knotted neatly beneath his strong jaw. Dark hair curled above his mask, which was fashioned after the face of a Greek bust, shot through with glittering cracks, as if the face had broken and the scars healed bright.
It was Mr. Darrow, and he had arrived at the masquerade armed with a piece of paper. Tattered and stained, she knew it belonged to her book. She had heard gossip all through the evening about the missing pages, and Ann had put about that it was a sort of game, and any found pages should be returnedto staff. In return, guests were given little meaningless trinkets, but at least it provided a kind of explanation. She might even have it all back eventually, and she couldn’t help but watch Mr. Darrow approach with parted lips, wondering what piece of her art he had brought along.
Vaguely, she heard Ann mutter something about a headache and drift away; Maggie rose to meet Mr. Darrow, full of curiosity and questions, which, she realized with a jolt, was just the way a man ought to make her feel.
9
I’ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap.
Henry VI, Part 3, Act 3, Scene 2
Bridger had reached the main ballroom and gallery late, having been waylaid repeatedly by merry guests stopping to inquire after what page he had found. They were all under the assumption it was a game devised by the ingenious bride, and not the result of some badly timed wind and a naughty window. He knew the truth of it all thanks to Lane, and though he was sometimes given to shyness with strangers, Bridger allowed himself to be drawn into conversation about the “game” of finding the lost pages. More interesting by far was the range of opinions the work elicited. Men and women were moved differently, some delighted, others intrigued, and still others appalled.
Though he could be stubborn, he was not stupid, and the excited way these masked folk discussed the pages only instilled in him a greater urge to read the novel in its entirety.
Which you could have done, simpleton, had you given it the chance it deserved when Miss Arden sent it.
He would make good on that score, and hopefully please her, by delivering the only page he had discovered bearing her actual name. If she was at all worried about judgment from the other guests, this would be the piece that would put an anxious heart at ease.
The woman in question, the woman who was more and more preoccupying his thoughts, rose from a stone bench at the other end of the open-air gallery. The scent of honeysuckle floated to him as he caught sight of Miss Arden. There was no mistaking her, even with the mask, for she always had a slightly tilted, inquisitive posture, and luxurious, full golden waves. Someone had tried to contain that wild mane of blond hair, but only succeeded in making it somewhat more civilized, piled in a Grecian way behind a crisscross of amber-colored velvet ribbons. She was a vision, and his heart twisted, and Bridger slowed his steps, wanting to drink her in at his leisure, for when would there come another night such as this?
He put out of his mind that he was not the most attractive marriage partner. He put out of his mind the brief glimpse of Regina and Miss Arden in conversation. He put it out of his mind that above him, still in his guest chamber, his brother was trussed like a hog for slaughter. He put it all aside and went to Miss Arden.
She peered up at him, fierce blue eyes flashing behind the feathered owl mask covering half of her face.
“Have we been introduced?” he teased, recalling their less-than-auspicious first meeting.
Miss Arden laughed, shook her head, then smiled impishly. “I don’t believe so. I am Artemis of the Hunt, but you…you are Hercules? Hector?”
Bridger lightly touched the edge of his mask with his free hand. “Perseus, who did not fear Medusa and slew the Gorgon terror.”
Her eyes danced, radiant. Behind the mask he saw a flicker of fear and then: ferocity. She turned and began to walk, and Bridger kept pace with her. They left the cool stones of the gallery behind, stepping out into the even more intoxicating surroundings of the veranda and the hundreds of lanterns sparkling on the lawn, describing a lazy path down to the pond, where fireworks would soon erupt. “That is too bad. I have always had great affection and pity for poor Medusa, who was treated abominably by the gods.”
Bridger let out a hearty laugh. “She turned men to stone!”
They stopped beside a trellis choked with purple flowers. A juggler wandered by, pretending to trip as he beheld Miss Arden in all her masked beauty. Bridger moved slightly closer to her, unnerved by the protective surge that warmed through his chest as the juggler leered, then stumbled his way giggling into the gallery behind them.
“Only because they wanted to harm her! She wasn’t bothering anyone in her lonely cave,” said Margaret. She sniffed, raising her head. “He didn’t even beat her fairly, did he? No, he had help from Athena, Hermes, Hephaestus…”
“And where was fair Artemis to intervene?” he asked, pointing to her mask.
“Punishing Actaeon, I imagine, another loathsome creature.”
“Loathsome creatures?” Bridger lifted both brows, then showed her the piece of recovered novel, which he had noticed her eyeing. “If we are such a nuisance, then we have nothing you could want, not even this, a page bearing the name of one”—he pretended to squint at the writing he had committed to memory—“Margaret Arden.”
