Page 34 of Much Ado About Margaret
“Then he fell for the ruse?” asked Maggie, leading them subtly closer to where Eliza and Regina spoke.
“Oh, yes, I gave the performance of a lifetime,” said Violet, puffing out her chest.
“And scared the doctor half to death,” added Winny. “Mrs. Richmond has brought out a chair and is sitting right in front of Ann’s door. I fear she is not so gullible as Mr. Madigan.”
“Which brought us to you.” Violet sighed and pulled away,standing on the edge of the picnic blankets, eyeing the rolls and meats being brought out to eat. “Have you gone through the temple yet for traces of our couple?”
“No,” Maggie told her. It was no use, the wind was blowing against them, carrying Eliza and Regina’s words far, far away to dance with whatever pages of her manuscript were stuck in the trees bordering the property. “I’ve only just arrived, and I was hoping to find Mr. Darrow, as we were something of a pair on this search.”
“I don’t see him,” Winny said, surveying the gardens beneath the yellow brim of her large bonnet. “But—oh, dear—I do see Mr. Gibson, and he is coming this way. Do you think Aunt Eliza spoke to him? Perhaps he is in love with you already. That gown suits you so well, sister.”
“Isn’t he in love with a whale?” Violet guffawed.
“New South Wales,” Winny and Maggie replied in unison. And too loudly. Mr. Gibson’s ears perked up, and his pace quickened. Violet threaded her arm back through Maggie’s and began leading them away, following the edge of the picnic blankets to the right, and carrying them toward the temple proper.
“Well! I won’t apologize, I’ve hardly slept a wink and skipped breakfast entirely, and you know I am cross and useless without food,” said Violet, sticking her nose in the air. “Either way, we must avoid him, and find your Mr. Darrow so the search can continue. Mrs. Richmond will explode if the doctor realizes Ann isn’t dying of a broken heart and reports as much.”
“I don’t see Mr. Darrow,” said Winny.
Maggie couldn’t locate him either and she couldn’t hide her disappointment. They were supposed to meet again, weren’t they? Perhaps she should have been clearer, perhaps—
“Now that is an interesting expression,” said Violet, studying her. “And, come to think of it, Mr. Darrow is coming up an awful lot.”
“A notable amount,” agreed Winny.
Violet swiped a finger sandwich in passing, behind the backs of a canoodling picnic couple. “A suspicious amount. You could certainly do worse, if you can forgive him for all his rudeness about your book. You know, he’s pointy but in a pleasing way.” Violet devoured the sandwich in two bites. “He sort of reminds me of a handsome stoat, a stoat with a noble profile and inscrutable intentions. Mythical, almost.”
Winny giggled. They were nearing the round mouth at the base of the Grecian temple. A border of blue and gold mosaic stones followed the line of the arch. “Oh, yes! Like one of Oberon’s courtiers, don’t you agree?”
“Perhaps he is all of those things,” said Maggie, wilting.Where is he?“But Aunt Eliza does not think him suitable, and therefore we must set him aside.”
“Since when does Aunt Eliza control your life?” Violet snorted.
“She controls all of our lives, Violet. Without her charity, we would have nothing.”
“Cousin Lane would help us,” said Violet, shrugging. “He wouldn’t let us suffer.”
“And is that what you want?” Maggie realized she was peckish and peevish, too, having been too distracted at her desk to eat much of her breakfast.Too distracted by Mr. Darrow, no less. Fool!“To go from person to person, hands out, begging? One of us must make an advantageous match, and why not me?”
Violet and Winny shrank from her in unison. Of course, Violet regained her courage first. “Because your eyes get all wibbly and soft when we mention Mr. Darrow?”
Maggie clamped her mouth shut in anger. There was no arguing with Violet because she was completely right.
“Then I suppose Aunt Eliza has won, since you are making all of her annoying arguments for her,” Violet continued, a little vicious. “You can announce her victory now, in fact, since she’s spotted Mr. Gibson and she’s coming this way.”
“Get inside the temple, go!” Winny told her, and together, the sisters formed a little wall, allowing Maggie to slip below the arch and into the shadowy embrace of the structure. It smelled like wet stones and dried flowers, and a steady drip from somewhere echoed loudly with each rhythmicplop. Immediately in front of her was a small water fountain, nearly empty, though that was the source of the dripping. A stone statue of woodland animals at play rose from the shallow dish of the fountain, and some rose petals had been sprinkled across the still, stagnant water. A spiral of stone steps led up to the second floor, the stairs just to the right of the fountain. The voices of her sisters faded as she silently tiptoed up and up, drawn by what sounded like a soft scratching or pawing. Any number of animals or birds might have nested in the temple, but she crept cautiously just in case, gently hoisting her petticoat and skirt.
As soon as her head peeked above the lip of the landing, she noticed the remnants of a fire on the gray, dusty floor. There was an empty cup, too, several discarded quills, and charred bits of paper among the ruins of the fire. A blanket, too fine to have been here for long, and of a rich enough weave to have been taken from the house, was folded haphazardly near the cup. She knelt and gingerly picked up the vessel, giving it a sniff before balking at the stench of old liquor. Someone had passed significant time here, spent the night here; her senses tingled, and she felt certain this had been the actual location for the clandestine meeting mentioned in the note.
Her searching was cut short by a shadow falling across her vision, then a strong hand gripping her forearm and pulling her back to standing. Maggie whirled, gasping, pulled swiftly into a man’s crushing embrace.
Bridger stared down into Miss Arden’s face with a grunt of recognition.
“ ’Tis only you,” he murmured, and though his grip loosened, she remained in his arms. The lady’s hands had flown up in defense, and now rested on his chest. As soon as Margaret recognized him, she stopped struggling.
“Only me,” she replied softly. Her lips remained slightly parted in the most tempting way, and her huge blue eyes blinked up at him with something more than relief. Urgency, maybe, and, unless he was imagining it, interest. Bridger was slapped hard with the memory of his first glimpse of her, flushed and earnest at her aunt’s poetry salon, gripping her smuggled-in manuscript with the desperation of a drowning sailor clinging to debris. It would have been charming if he hadn’t been in such a bleak mood, ambushed at the event with news of his brother’s philandering in Bath. She had been beautiful then, and she was even more beautiful now, unpretentious, vital, and unexpectedly pliant in his embrace. They were alone in the echoing cavern of the temple’s heart, and her eyes ensnared him; Bridger gathered her closer, lowered his head, and kissed her.
Margaret’s lips felt like the summer sun burning through cold rain. He swallowed her gasp of surprise, leaned into her, cradled the back of her neck beneath her bonnet, and felt the sweat gathering there under her hair. Just once, his tongue speared into her mouth, and just once, she arched subtly against him, and then her better judgment must have crashed down, and she pushed him away.
