Page 37 of Much Ado About Margaret
Perhaps we should not have kissed, but I would do it again, a hundred times over, just to feel the loneliness recede for another brilliant moment.
Instead, Bridger said, “We were discussing your early works.”
“Oh, yes,” Margaret replied, absent, gazing at the rain.
“Romeo and Juliet,Hamlet…Your father must have had some profound love for Shakespeare,” he began. He couldn’t help it, he wanted to draw more out of her. Even caught in the rain, it was the most pleasant afternoon he had spent with someone in years. “Did he ever explain the origin of that obsession?”
“His sister,” she told him in a dreamy whisper. “Her name was Beatrice, and if his stories were accurate, she was wild indeed. She fled the family to live in London and be an actress, and they stopped acknowledging her altogether. Papa read plays to feel closer to her, and when he could afford a few books of his own, gathered them for his library. I never knew her, but Papa says I resemble her closely. He almost convinced Mamma to name me Beatrice, but he was afraid it was inappropriate due to the estrangement.” Margaret’s voice trailed off, sad. “I sometimes wonder if she is still alive, and if she even knows Papa is gone.”
Bridger stared at the paper-thin gap between their fingers. “You could look for her in London.”
“Mm. That would certainly please my aunts.” Her mouth drew down at the mention of them.
“The name Beatrice would have suited you,” he said, guiding them back to a lighter subject. “How does it go? ‘I would my horse had the speed of your tongue’?”
It had the intended effect. Margaret broke into a mischievous smile. “Indeed! Then, perhaps you should have been called Benedick, mm? ‘A good soldier to a lady.’ ”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Arden, for I am not much of anything to a lady these days. Not until my fortunes improve and the burdens of my family are lessened.” He shifted at the probing look she gave him. “But I have lately acquired a very promising manuscript, and I know it will be the spark that lights a blaze of luck.”
Margaret swiveled to face him, eyes alight with curiosity. “What sort of manuscript?”
“About a group of traders in the Americas, exploring caves, their secrets laid bare as their circumstances deteriorate,” Bridger explained, encouraged by her interest.
“Who is the writer? Is it rude to ask?”
“Not at all, Miss Arden. A new author, G. R. Neeve.”
Margaret fell silent, then quietly laughed, and shook her head. The sodden ribbons of her bonnet finally gave, and it fell off of her head. She pulled it off, settled her loosely pinned hair, and set the bonnet in her lap. Her hand returned to where it had been, and this time he noticed her pinky finger pressed tight to his.
“What?” he asked in response to her laughter. “Jealous?”
“Oh no, no,” said Margaret. “It’s nothing…Well, but it’s just funny, isn’t it? G. R. Neeve? Think on it, Mr. Darrow. Do you not see? Rearrange the letters and it’s the wordrevenge.”
A cold feeling bloomed across his chest, then he flushed. “A coincidence, surely. Lots of letters spell lots of things.”
“A coincidence, yes, you’re probably right.” Margaret slumped forward a little. “Will this rain ever stop?”
“It had better,” he said, gruff. “Or we shall be stranded in the village overnight.”
Margaret went pale. She drew her hands back into her lap and shivered. The trees scraped and creaked, the wind blasting against the cart’s covering. “My aunts will be frantic if I do not return, for how could I slip any lower in their estimations? No, no, Mr. Darrow, that simply cannot happen.”
15
She loved me for the dangers I had passed,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
Othello, Act 1, Scene 3
It happened.
With a chill, the blood drained out of Maggie’s face as they stood before the proprietor at the Gull and Knave, both of them soaked and bedraggled, hungry and tired. She was still shivering beneath the heavy, dark shell of Mr. Darrow’s coat, and probably looked like a half-drowned turtle. They had said goodbye to Foster hours before, with an understanding that they would depart the inn for Pressmore just before sunset. None of that came to plan. The pair made inquiries up and down the shops of Cray Arches, but many of the stores had closed up early, the storm driving folk back to their homes. It was a cramped village, though charming on a better day, the shops clustered along the main thoroughfare, squat homes fanned out like cards into the low hills. There was no sign of Paul Darrow or their cloaked lady, and Maggie was beginningto worry they had not ridden into Cray Arches at all or diverted elsewhere due to the weather. At last, when the wind shrieked in earnest and all the windows in all the shops went dark, they retreated to the Gull and Knave, defeated, to find Foster was not there waiting for them.
Bristling and well-bristled, the proprietor barely looked up from his ledger. He was a tremendous brick of a man, black-haired, with a streak of gray shot through his thick curling beard. His nostrils twitched with increasing irritation after each of their questions, almost in uncanny time with the nervous bounce of Maggie’s right leg.
“One room left, is all,” the proprietor grunted. He drummed his fingers on the worn table between them, a bright blue ring flashing on his pinky.
“I understand that, and thank you,” said Bridger, speaking for them both. While he questioned the bearded man, her eyes roamed the main room of the inn. It was like many posts along the busy road, a warm and relatively upstanding location fit for any travelers changing carriages or resting on a long journey. The clientele was what she expected to find—well-dressed ladies and gentlemen quietly having their suppers, eyes a little big and spooked from the sudden rage of the storm outside.
