Page 39 of Much Ado About Margaret
“That would be a waste of your sympathies,” he replied, brooding over his bowl. “She’s been gone a long time. Racburn is a family name, from her side.”
Maggie felt the sadness ripple off of him in palpable waves. He may wish to portray himself as detached, but she could tell there was something deeper going on. The wind howled mercilessly. She huffed and looked around, coming to dire terms with the fact that they might really be stuck there. Hours of literary debate had not chased off the storm. The smell of his coat lingered on her clothing, a rich mixture of his soap, tobacco, and a faint, woodsy scent she couldn’t place.He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed.“What was she like, your mother? Paint me a picture.”
“I wish I could, but I’m afraid it would be just one color. Regrettably—no,shamefully—I know almost nothing about her mind or her soul.” He stared down into his wine. “My father worked diligently to disabuse us of the notion that she was a person we should worry about, and when she died, if he mourned for her, I did not witness it. I remember her being quite frail, her voice like a whisper, and her presence calming. She must have been unbearably sad, but she never let us see it.”
“Then perhaps you do not dislike Jane Bennet after all; youwere just never taught to appreciate soft creatures.” Shrugging, she went on, eyes on her food as she dug out the nice bits of potato that were perfectly melty. “What a joy it was to grow up surrounded by women—to know the closeness of sisters, to have a loving mother, and a father who adored her, too.”
“Soft creatures,” Bridger repeated, shaking his head and laughing dryly. “My father had no patience for such people. Perhaps it’s a mercy he never had a daughter. He encouraged Pimm and me to fight over the smallest offense, and scolded whoever gave up first.”
“How awful.”
“Indeed, Miss Arden. He kept me from Regina, he would gladly keep me from you. I see now that he only ever wanted to make me as lonely and miserable as he is.”
The blond boy traipsed up and down the stairs. He grinned at her. Maggie finished eating and more wine was brought. “Whatever transpired between you must have been harrowing—”
“I behaved badly,” he said, abruptly, cutting her off. He tugged on the ends of his sleeves with obvious discomfort. “Let us change the subject.”
“But—”
“Tell me about your book,” Bridger barreled on, undertaking a smile that seemed genuinely to pain him. Her eyes narrowed. The drums in her head were somehow hot now, like a flicked finger striking the bottom of a scorched pan. What didn’t he want her to know about Regina? What was he hiding? A heartbreak was one thing, but it was hard not to think of how outrageously his brother had acted. Her eyes cast about the room, as if just thinking about the man could summon him. The rain beat steadily against the windows, driving sideways.
“I want to know about her,” she said, leaning forward.
“And I insist we discuss anything else.”
He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed.
“No. I think we shall discuss exactly this.”
“Miss Arden—”
“If I have no choice but to spend the night masquerading as your wife and sharing a room with you, I have a right to know if something sinister transpired!”
The darkness in his already turbulent eyes redoubled. His upper lip quivered, as if ready to pull into a snarl. “What is there to say? We had an understanding when I left for France. My father wasn’t fond of her demeanor or her family’s low connections, relations deteriorated, and there were complicated feelings on both sides. He had no way of knowing—and neither did I—that the Applethwaites would soon come into money and move in more elevated circles.”
Maggie reached for the wine. The alcohol was making her head feel stuffed, too full of hot, throbbing blood. Why was he suddenly so secretive? “Is that all?”
“What would you like me to tell you? That I still love her? I do not, Miss Arden. In fact, I have no feelings toward her whatsoever except exasperation. You clearly desire some confession or admission, but I will give you none, owe you none, and since I have answered your questions, you can satisfy one of mine: why do you care so much about what is between me and Miss Applethwaite?”
Maggie almost came out of her chair. “Because you kissed me!” She lowered her tone, embarrassed. “Whydid you kiss me?”
Mr. Darrow stared at her, and she could feel him receding, withdrawing like a beast into its cave. His face grew pale and taut, his eyes frighteningly far away. “I don’t know, but it was very obviously a mistake, I—”
“Mistake?” This time, Maggie did leave her chair. She stood, tipping over the wine bottle, splashing it a little on herself as she righted it, then hurried away. Mr. Darrow remained frozen at the table. He had said it himself in the cart, hadn’t he?He was in no position to make himself an attractive husband to anyone, and now he had made it perfectly plain that the kiss was meaningless. A good soldier to a lady…Well! He was right about one thing, she did resemble Beatrice, more so than ever in that particular moment.I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.
Then, the kiss was a mistake. Maggie marched to the proprietor’s alcove and demanded she be shown to their room. The boy with the summer-yellow hair was summoned, and he led her up the stairs running along the wall near the front door. She kept her gaze decidedly away from Bridger Darrow, even as she silently begged him to notice her, get up, chase her, do something. Thunder shook the inn. A table of men in the corner erupted into raucous laughter. It simultaneously felt like everybody and nobody was staring at her, like she could be scorned and forgotten in the same heartbeat.
“It’s a small room, miss,” the boy was saying, taking a right at the landing and leading her down a close, damp, cold hall. “But warm enough with the fire stoked. I’ll warm a brick for you, should keep the chill at bay.”
“Thank you,” Maggie heard herself say. She was holding her fingers pinched together, prim, as if adopting the guise of a rigid, unfeeling lady would somehow protect her from sick, roiling anguish in her guts.
He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed.
And it was a mistake.
The room was small—tiny—just like the boy had warned. With nothing to do, Maggie went by the bed on the left to the window beside the hearth and stared out at the betraying storm. It wasn’t dissipating, and though it was only lately dusk, it looked like full night had fallen, a swollen, bruised color to the world as the clouds unleashed another torrent of wet and a spearing fork of lightning. It struck close enough to make her gasp, a hollow echo vibrating through her chest. Shedidn’t want to cry and told herself to wait until the boy brought the brick to start. With a sigh, she pulled off her sodden, stained gloves and formed them into a ball, leaving them on the sill. Her nail beds were still outlined in stray ink, which reminded her of the stupid words she had written with a stupid pen and shoved into a stupid drawer at stupid Pressmore.
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.
