Page 41 of Much Ado About Margaret
Bridger’s eyes blew wide open. “The lady? And how would you describe her?”
“Thin as a reed, curly hair, real shy-like, pretty, but scared of the man, I think,” said Alfred, gaining confidence. “Not from here, sir. India, maybe, like the ladies up at Pressmore. She didn’t want to give up her rings, but the man made ’er.”
Not Ann, surely? It had to be one of her relations.
“And where did this man and his lady go?” He was growing impatient. “Or are they still present?”
The boy shook his head and pointed to a door a bit to theleft and down the hall. “I was just to say if anyone took the room, and if so, what they looked like and what name they answered to, sir. The man, he was big, sir, rough and big. He gave me the lady’s ring for my help. Your wife went in and when I came back with a brick for ’er she was gone.” Then, he pointed in the other direction, over Bridger’s shoulder. “They’re all gone. That way, sir, down the back stairs the maids use.”
The innkeeper and the boy had nearly matching rings. Pimm had used the woman’s jewels to buy their complicity and silence. The name Racburn wouldn’t fool his brother, and he or the relation would easily recognize Miss Margaret from the estate. As he let the boy go, he went directly toward the door that had been theirs for the evening. How long had he sat stewing in the lower dining room while Margaret was missing? An hour, perhaps? More?
“And you were given no further instructions? No indication of where they might be going?”
A shake of the head, a tremble, and all the while the lad played nervously with the ring that wouldn’t even fit all the way over his finger.
“Go and fetch my coat and cane.”
There was nothing more to be said. He shouldered open the door, finding the slant-ceilinged room empty save for the bed, a small table, two worn chairs, a threadbare rug, and a crooked painting of a bear in a meadow at dusk. A discolored bundle of fabric lay on the windowsill, and Bridger gathered it up, finding they were Miss Arden’s discarded gloves. They were pulled inside out, the inner fingertips lightly blackened with ink. He squeezed the gloves in his hands, then slipped them inside his coat pocket.
Bridger felt empty, cored, and then immediately filled with a white-hot fire. Margaret simply had to be found, there was nothing else to contemplate. The storm raged on as the boy reappeared with his walking stick, coat half-dried fromproximity to a fire, and Bridger shrugged it on, a stab of guilt sinking deep as the scent of Margaret’s hair came to him, fresh on the wool. He gripped the cane halfway up the shaft and pushed down the corridor, down a set of rickety steps, past a greasy door protecting the sounds of pots and pans clanging, and out the back side of the inn, into a sheltered courtyard adjacent to the stables. A smattering of dust and hay trickled out into the fenced yard, marking a light path to a gate leading to a side street. Shrieking gusts brought the rain pouring under the lip of thatch, but it was shelter enough to preserve a deep boot tread in the mud and hay. It was a single set of tracks, but deeper than one might expect, as if weighted down by a load.
The wind stilled for a blissful interval, and in the void left behind, the church bells rang out. The Angelus chimed, originating from the east, the storm sending a blaze of lightning to illuminate the horizon and the church tower spearing toward the heavens.
It was as good a place as any to start hunting.
17
Of all base passions, fear is most accursed.
Henry VI, Part 1, Act 5, Scene 2
Maggie sat huddled against the freezing wall of the north transept in the little church. Out in the nave, she heard her captor muttering under his breath about the racket. The bells had been rung, and it had filled the stone belly of the church with vibrations and sound. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe calmly, willing Bridger to find the empty inn room, willing him to listen to the singing bells and follow their call.
Her jaw ached, her entire body clenched with fear. The journey from the Gull and Knave to the church had not been a long one, but even so, she was completely drenched. Her bonnet had fallen off; it sat now on the ground beside her. Damp clumps of blond hair clung to the sides of her face, uncomfortable, but there was nothing she could do about it; Paul Darrow had bound her hands behind her back.
What a ridiculous situation.
Nonsensical to attempt the walk when the rain had already made itself known, and anyone possessing even a meager intelligence would know to turn back and not take the risk. But she had been enjoying Mr. Darrow’s company, and after all, they had just kissed, and how could she want to be away from him after that? Still, she berated herself. This was what Aunt Eliza was talking about—she had to use her head more and learn to ignore her unruly heart.
But after a kiss like that, it was hard not to become all heart.
Shadows moved across the worn archway. It was an old, old church, perhaps fourteenth century, weathered by untold footsteps, untold prayers, untold knees pressed into the floor. She could see Paul and his bride-to-be in hushed conversation just beyond the last row of pews, and then an old man appeared, and he was directed by the lady to sit wherever he liked while the vicar finished his preparations. Since Maggie arrived and was unceremoniously dumped in the transept, she had not laid eyes on the clergyman in question. Detaching from the huddled conversation, the bride shuffled toward Maggie with her head hanging like a shunned dog’s.
“Ruby,” Maggie murmured as the girl came near. “You can’t mean to go through with this.”
Ruby had dressed in a lovely, soft pink gown, delicate lace along the neck and peeking out from the petticoat. The puffed sleeves made her look painfully young. She still wore the dark cloak that had concealed her as she raced away from the Grecian temple and into the rain. Her fingers were naked, for she had given all of her pretty jewels away.
“And why not?” She stuck out her chin, pulled back her shoulders. The conceit only lasted a breath or two. Soon, she wilted and hurried forward to kneel and undo the ties around Maggie’s wrists. “Ann and Emilia always have the men chasing after them. Just once I want to be the one everyone admires,everyone loves. Even during my season, nobody noticed me! They only wanted to see Ann, the great beauty, Emilia, the prettiest girl to ever live! You don’t know what it’s like to live in the shadow of perfect cousins.” She sat back, the bonds undone. Her eyes were big and glossy as she stared at Maggie’s face. “They are lovely and clever, but I can be clever, too.” She stopped, grinning. “Aren’t you curious how we could marry this suddenly?”
Maggie had been too flustered to consider it, but now that Ruby mentioned it…
“I made the license myself,” Ruby declared, proud. “And Mr. Corner couldn’t tell a goat from a goose at five paces. He was a little shocked by the hour and the circumstances, but it was easy enough to convince him that Ann and Mr. Richmond’s nuptial happiness had spurred our own. It seems he’s a romantic like me.”
“You forged a bishop’s license?” Maggie dropped her face into her hands. This wasn’t a romantic notion; it was a fanciful delusion. “Good lord, copying out passages from books,” she muttered, remembering Ruby bickering with Emilia. “This is terribly wrong, Ruby, the consequences—”
“But youwillkeep our secret,” Ruby interrupted. “For Ann’s sake. For the family’s sake.”
A pit throbbed in Maggie’s stomach. So much scandal and chaos, and all for a quick, sham marriage to fill Pimm’s purse and soothe Ruby’s hurt feelings. Maggie was silent, stunned, amazed at the girl’s audacity.
