Page 47 of Much Ado About Margaret
“Hide the love bites on your neck better, brother, or I won’t be the last to ask.”
“What is between Miss Arden and me is none of your business, other than the thanks you owe her. Without her interference, you might have turned murderer.”
“But sheiswealthy,” Pimm prodded, sniffing with laughter.
It was Bridger’s turn to shift and fidget. He had no idea what her dowry might be and knew only that her circumstances were less than ideal. It had seemed romantic and daring when he called them unmarriable, but the reality was significantly less charming. “As soon as I return to London, there is work to be done on a promising novel. The potential income—”
“Potential?” Pimm spat. His face turned red. Bridger braced for the next round of insults and maybe a thrown fist. Instead, his brother sank further down on the bench and muttered something like “My little brother the savior.”
Bridger ignored him. And he continued ignoring him all the way to Fletcher. They arrived at midday. The grounds were untouched by the storm, and the squat, cake-like profile of the house made his stomach twist into a nest of vipers as they dipped down the hill toward the entrance. A light rain made the grass sparkle, but Bridger leapt down into a deep morass of mud. The staff did their best not to look surprised at Pimm’s presence or his bloodshot, bruised state. They were much kinder to Bridger, who instructed them to prepare Paul’s rooms for his permanent residence. Further instructions were given to keep him away from the wine and brandy.
Halfway down the corridor to his father’s study, he encountered Harris. The solicitor broke into a smile at seeing Bridger, greeted him, then pulled him close to speak in confidence. He was wearing his orange cravat again, and the wan light penetrating the hall glittered off the top of his bald head.
“It is good to see you again, lad, but if you were hoping to see your father today, I fear he is not at his best. Eating seems to pain him and sometimes he will not swallow his supper at all.”
Bridger nodded in the face of his concerns but pushed past him. “Is the doctor within?”
“No, should I send for him?”
“You probably should,” said Bridger, continuing to the study doors. “This won’t take long.”
There was a damp, sweaty smell to the study. The curtains were closed and scant candles burned, and his father sat swaddled and hunched at his desk, lurking like a hermit in a cave. The same old blade of fear lanced through Bridger as he walked toward his father. His imposing walnut desk was beyond him, heaped with bottles and books. Bridger couldn’t help but stare at the heaviest among them and wonder if it was the tome that had been hurled at young Pimm’s head. His father seemed shrunken, hollow-faced with hunger. There was a pronounced whistling when he breathed.
Bridger strode to the window and threw open the curtains, a liberty he would never have taken before. At the desk, his father stirred and startled, then spun toward him.
Bridger tucked his hands behind his back, thumbs locked. Out in the garden, an enormous flock of finches moved from tree to tree, surging upward like a brown dragon soaring across the grounds.
“No more flowers,” said his father with difficulty. “Where’s Paul?”
“Trying to sleep, I’d imagine,” Bridger replied, almost conversational. “Trying to forget all the beatings you gave him that turned his brains to porridge.”
“Eh? What did you say?”
Bridger drew in a deep breath. “I said you’re a fucking demon. Pimm is going to look after you now, though I daresayyou don’t deserve it. There was a time I’d have said you deserve each other, but I think I pity him.” He pivoted to glance at his father over his right shoulder.
“I should…You dare…” Mr. Darrow tried to reach for a bottle to throw. It took him a few attempts, but he finally managed it, then hurled an empty vial at his son. Bridger dodged it easily; a muscle in his jaw twitched.
“You dared, didn’t you? You dared too much. All the time. We might have avoided this familial slide into infamy and destitution if you had just let me love Regina. She’s wealthy now, and we would have been happy with our bad manners and our books. But she despises me, and the woman I now love might not have two pounds to her name!” Bridger laughed, gleeful, exhilarated. Leaning against the sill, he regarded his father with cold scrutiny. “I’m going to marry Margaret Arden, a woman you would hate. She has too many opinions, voices them, and does so without apology. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and that you convinced me was rot. The real rot was here in this house all along.”
He toed the bottle out of the way and left, his father calling after him about the damn flowers his mother had left in the front hall. His father’s physician was riding up the road toward the house. Bridger decided to stay long enough to eat, sleep, and have his bandage changed. In the morning, he would return to Pressmore and Margaret. The house was suffocating him. He went out to the back garden and cut a few flowers, watching the finches make shapes as they swooped and dove.
With the flowers in hand, he wondered if he would ever bring Margaret here. He fancied not. He fancied they would make a life of their own somewhere better, where little boys didn’t have to hide in libraries, where fathers embraced their sons.
21
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 1, Scene 1
They rattled and bumped their way back to Pressmore in Foster’s cart. The storm had ravaged the waxed covering over the wagon, peppering it with holes, but the cart served well enough as conveyance through the lingering mist. The trees along the narrow path to Pressmore hung against one another, bent at odd angles, their branches littering the ground. Ruby refused to look at Maggie, as if by sheer force of will she could pretend the other lady wasn’t there.
“Do you think Ann will ever speak to me again?” Ruby murmured. It was slow going on the mangled, muddy path, and every so often Maggie had to get down and help Foster move a branch out of the road.
“That depends,” said Maggie. “Are you sorry?”
Ruby sat with that in stubborn silence.
“Was it your idea or Mr. Darrow’s to appear on the balconytogether like that? To implicate Ann when it was your own misguided indulgence—your idea or Darrow’s?”
