Page 24 of Much Ado About Margaret
Winny and Violet must have stalled as long as they could.
“I will speak to her,” said Maggie with a confidence she hardly felt. “Stay here, Ann, and let no one inside unless you trust them. Aunt Mildred—Mrs. Richmond—is terribly old-fashioned, and her sister will have been buzzing in her ears about reputations and gossip and all sorts.”
“She will open these doors!” Aunt Mildred could be heard screeching. “At once! At once! Where is Lane? Bring him here to me.”
Ann rose and gathered Maggie’s hands in hers, then pulled her into a strong embrace. “All of my hopes go with you.” Returning to the desk, she snatched a piece of parchment from inside a drawer, dunked an obliging quill in ink, and dashed off a note. She fanned it to help the ink dry, then blew on it, folded the note, and pushed it into Maggie’s hands.
“Can you deliver this to Lane?” she implored, wiping her red eyes. “Please…”
“Of course, Ann. Have Emilia stay close to the doors, she can pass along whatever she hears of my conversation with Mrs. Richmond.”
“Why?” asked Ann, studying her closely. “Why help me?”
Maggie shook her head. “You made a game of my spilled pages when you could have cast blame, and it is a simple thing to return that kindness. Thanks to you, my reputation among the wealthy men here has been salvaged. Which is heartening for my aunt, who is determined to marry me off to one of them.”
Ann’s note reminded her of the other message she had seenbeing delivered that evening, the tiny scrap folded and tucked under the vase. Recalling it made the back of her neck prickle with significance; someone was sneaking love notes and arranging clandestine meetings, and could that have anything to do with the scandalous balcony kiss?
More knocking. More screeching. Maggie hastily crammed the note for Lane into her neckline and trotted to the door. “Right,” she said to the three ladies in a stage whisper. “I will rally Lane as best I can and search out your lost mask.”
“Fanny should have had it,” called Ann from a slumped position at the desk. “Lord, I hope she doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
Aunt. Lane. Maid. Mask. Maggie tried to repeat it to herself to cut through the bramble of worries in her mind. She had to keep Aunt Mildred from behaving rashly, which seemed an impossible task even for a talented storyteller.
Carefully easing outside, Maggie came nose to knuckle with Aunt Mildred’s fist as she raised it to knock on the door again. She ducked to the side, nearly colliding with one of the flower-stuffed vases outside the chamber.
“Good heavens! Margaret!” Her aunt tumbled backward into the frazzled grasp of Eliza.
All the ladies of her own blood had assembled there—Aunt Mildred, Aunt Eliza, and her sisters. Mildred’s lady’s maid was there, too, soothing her mistress frantically with a fan in each hand. Maggie’s first instinct was to study the faces of her sisters; unhelpfully, Winny looked frightened enough to fall down, and Violet was red-faced and sweating, dashing off a quick headshake to tell Maggie…something.
“How is she?” Violet at least asked, venturing a thoughtful question.
“Pleased with herself, I’m sure, I’m sure!” squawked Aunt Mildred, adding a third fan, her own, her graying golden curls blown this way and that. It was disquieting to see how quicklyher aunt had turned against Ann. Disquieting but not entirely surprising. Maggie didn’t appreciate the way Aunt Mildred spoke about Mamma, and now she didn’t approve of how she discussed Ann. “Now we are all talking about her, which is all the young lady ever desires.”
“My, that is unkind, aunt,” Winny murmured.
“It is kinder than she deserves!” their aunt added, whirling on poor Winifred.
“Have compassion; she is not at all well,” Maggie announced, clearing her throat, raising her voice above the commotion. She hoped Emilia was listening closely at the door. “In fact, she…she…” Five stunned faces stared back at her. Lane and Mr. Darrow were missing, but perhaps it was best they could not add their suspicions to the moment. It was hateful to lie, but this was no ordinary circumstance. They needed time to prove Ann’s innocence, and collecting sympathy for the bride would strengthen their chances. When she was a child, her papa would sit her under the shading branches of the tall elm in their back pasture, and, while she twiddled with the rabbit paw fluff of a gray willow bud, read fromMuch Ado About Nothing. He did all the voices. Little Maggie liked Beatrice best, naturally, for she was quick, clever, and never backed down.
Papa gave the friar character a wheezing, soft voice, and she could easily hear her father’s voice in that impression, saying: “Your daughter here the princes left for dead. Let her awhile be secretly kept in, and publish it that she is dead indeed.”
“She is not well,” repeated Maggie, remembering Hero’s feigned illness and death. “She…is…” Maggie swallowed, locking eyes with Violet, who increasingly looked like steam might pour out of her ears like a kettle while she awaited the final word. “Sick.”
“Sick?” Aunt Eliza scoffed. “I do not believe it.”
“No! Yes! She is absolutely ill. Very ill.” Maggie smoothedher hands nervously down her bodice.You’re the storyteller, oh brilliant one, so tell a story.“I have never seen a lady brought to frailty with such suddenness, with a brow dampened by fever, chills racking her body, her vigor utterly sapped. Dutiful Emilia waits at her side, but we must fetch a doctor. I recall that she complained of a headache to Lane and that is why she retired, but it appears her condition has deteriorated.”
“Ridiculous,” Aunt Mildred said, but slowly, as if doubting her own mouth. And Eliza, for her part, had gone quiet, brow furrowed with worry. “Fetch Lane here, then, and we will hear all about this so-called headache.”
“I will gladly find him,” Maggie volunteered brightly, already going.
Her aunt took a few steps, finding herself walled in by Violet and Winny. “But—”
“Do not disturb Ann!” she called once more over her shoulder as she turned the corner of the hall and broke into a run. It was up to Violet and Winny to keep their aunts out of that room. If any pair of stalwart ladies could do so, it was them. She felt confident that if Lane could be persuaded to Ann’s defense, the rest of the house would do the same. As she went, she heard muted grumbling from her aunts wondering after Lane’s valet, after Ann’s maid, and so forth. Maggie did not give them a chance to call her back. She returned to the grand staircase, hearing at once a commotion on the level below. The foyer was packed with guests preparing to leave, but milling and confused, no doubt afraid to appear rude by leaving without first giving their regards to the hostess. Maggie ignored them, choosing to hurry in the direction of the raised voices, both of them belonging to men.
It was easy enough to find the source of the upheaval.One masquerade and the whole of England is turned on its head,thought Maggie, who couldn’t imagine what further mischief had been made that night at Pressmore. The estate alwaysretained an aura of magic and strangeness, surrounded by the wild gardens that seemed always to encroach and creep upon the house, but she had never in her wildest dreams expected one evening of merrymaking to devolve into scandal and chaos.
She slipped down the stairs, turning left, racing down a plush, carpeted hall hung with art of pastoral children frolicking with lambs. Their painted expressions were awfully doleful given the subject matter, lending the scenes an eerie discordance. Someone had put out most of the candles in the hall, and the shadows felt entrenched. A bit of light spilled out from an open door toward the end of the corridor, the origin of the voices. She couldn’t have been prepared for what she found upon arriving, for there inside were Lane and Mr. Darrow, huddled over a small, dark-haired young woman with her hands and feet bound, her cheeks streaked with tears fresh and old.
