Page 33 of Much Ado About Margaret
“Someone has to clean up this mess,” she heard her aunt mutter as Maggie thanked Lane and hurried away. A picnic might be the best way to blend in while searching the temple, for her sister was right—it was dangerous to set off alone, and she dreaded to think of what Paul Darrow might do if he caught her by herself in the Grecian temple, far, far away from the main house and any helpful bystanders.
Finding her way back to the chamber she was meant to share with her sisters, Maggie allowed herself a brief nap, blissfully alone in the big bed, then forced herself to start the day, wash, and dress. She chose a cornflower blue walking dress that Violet always said brought out her eyes and a striped spencer with thick, embroidered toggles.
There was a soft swishing sound from the direction of thedoor. Maggie went to discover a small, folded message had been slid into the room. Puzzled, she snatched it up, noting the lightly perfumed scent and elegant hand.
Miss Margaret Arden,
Though we are only a little acquainted and not yet friends, I feel I must issue another heartfelt warning. It gives me no pleasure to write these things to you, but I feel honor bound to protect another woman from the great harm I suffered at the hands of Mr. Darrow. Perhaps only my pride and confidence were wounded, but the scars linger and sometimes burst open, renewing the pain.
He is not a man to be trusted with the heart of a sensitive woman. There is no evidence to suggest that he has changed in the years since our acrimonious goodbye. He has no regard for the opinion of ladies, no respect for women generally, but excels in hiding the depth of his disdain. For much of our courtship he concealed his ill feelings, only revealing them when I bared my soul. It was not lightly that I confessed to him my interest in composing my own poems and stories and sharing them with the world. His reaction was quick and brutal, and the insults cut deep. He assured me that no one would ever be interested in what I had to say, that the mind of a woman was better occupied with painting tables and decorating bonnets, and that the true subtleties of literary achievement were attainable by men alone. Upon my honor, he said it, and I have the letters still to prove it.
If his beliefs do not offend you, if you think him to be truly reformed, then ignore this note and my previous warnings. I leave his judgment in your capable hands, and, if you were to take my advice and withdraw yourfriendship from Mr. Darrow, I know we could be very good friends indeed. Unfortunately, until such a time, I cannot allow myself to be drawn back into his web of cruelty and misdirection.
Yours,
Regina Applethwaite
Regina’s fixation on Mr. Darrow struck her as more than just simple jealousy. After all, Regina was perfect in almost every way and could have whomever she wanted. It seemed foolish to discard the lady’s misgivings altogether, particularly when she hadn’t made up her mind where Mr. Darrow was concerned.
And yet.And yet.His eyes had burrowed into her thoughts. All the well-intentioned warnings in the world might not be enough to pry him loose.
The rain held while she bolted down a light breakfast in her room, sitting before the very window where her pages had made their escape. It felt like years had passed since that moment. Her eyes wandered from the table to the window, to the closet where the remainder of her manuscript was tucked away. It was a shameful secret, she realized, and one she had been too willing to flaunt about. Her Aunt Eliza was probably even then in conversation with Mr. Gibson, exaggerating Maggie’s charms, and being sure to never bring up the mysterious pages that had appeared all over Pressmore. If she married him, she would have to keep her heart’s longing, her passion, stuck in a closet like her book. And it would have to be guarded with a permanent lock while she had his children, grew old, and became as resentful and cold as her aunts.
Maggie pillaged the desk for quill, ink, and paper. All the ingredients for a letter were present, though she was not addressing anyone in particular. Words flowed out of her. Shehad been without a quill and ink for two days and it felt like a burning flood had built up inside of her. She had to let it out, and so she did, tip scratching furiously across the pages. It all came out—her shock and sadness, her worries for Ann, her fear of letting down her family, Regina’s note, and then, without warning:
If I could marry a man like Mr. Darrow, a man who understands the importance of books, the good they can do, the magic they create, then I might be content after all—to make my family proud without packing my heart away in a dark and dusty room, that is my dearest wish. There is no Margaret Arden without her writing and her books. One day, that will prove a boon, not a burden.
She looked down at the page, startled, then hastily struck through the last few sentences, folded the paper, and stuck it back in the desk drawer, leaving it there with Regina’s note.
He hates your book, and an intelligent woman is convinced of his villainy.
But a man can change.
Maggie stood and paced to the far window, sliding against it. The cool window was heaven on her cheek. Outside, she noticed a thin stream of people wandering out of the house and down toward the hedge maze. The picnic! Had so much time passed? Maggie pinched her own wrist on Ann’s behalf, then grabbed the spencer and hastily buttoned it on. The ribbons on her bonnet streamed from her hand as she ran from the room, hoping with a fast-beating heart that Mr. Darrow would see the guests and join them.
Joinher.
14
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 1
The clouds sank lower by the minute as Maggie hurried down the gentle slope toward the hedge maze. The picnic goers had gone around, but she knew the path, cutting through the maze, remembering when to veer left and when to dodge around the false wall behind the satyr statue. At last, she reached the other side of the maze, trotting out onto a shallow overlook with a view down to the lower gardens carved out below. She tiptoed along the strip between the maze and the steep wall of rocks to her right, then hopped over a few decorative rocks and started down the stone steps leading to the temple.
At the bottom of the stairs the land flattened out, hemmed in neatly by yew hedges and cypresses planted at intervals, stone plinths holding Grecian statues dotting the natural, shadowy nooks created by the trees. All of this flanked thetemple “ruins,” preciously dilapidated and strewn across the middle of the clearing, a pretty snarl of cedar and more cypresses growing about and through the commissioned temple. Bright profusions of hawthorn, roses, and lilac dotted the hillside near the steps, along with cascading, terraced rows of vibrantly blue cornflowers and white-and-purple starburst columbines.
A bracing wind shook the heavy heads of the flowers, and Maggie hugged herself, shivering. As she reached the last step, she paused and watched the staff lay out the blankets and baskets for the guests. There was a subdued energy to the proceedings, and everyone seemed to speak in low tones, the grim atmosphere of the house reaching even here. Maggie wasn’t insensible to it, either, watching as Regina Applethwaite broke away from one small party near the temple and glided to where her aunt Eliza stood apart and aloof. Her aunt looked dreary indeed, but her countenance brightened a little at Regina’s approach. Whatever their urgent conversation entailed, Maggie couldn’t tell, but she started to move closer, hoping to eavesdrop.
That hope was dashed as Winny and Violet hurried down the stone steps behind her and enveloped her, one sister on either side.
“You’re supposed to be with Ann,” Maggie chided lightly.
“The doctor dismissed us,” said Winny, sounding regretful. “But Emilia has returned to her side. Poor Ann, the man is bleeding her dry.”
