Page 56 of Much Ado About Margaret
At his lowest, he had thought the most uncharitable things about her. Now he saw that she had been forced to drop him or betray her entire family.
“I wish there was more I could say or do,” said Regina, kindly. “I hope you know I only ever advised her against you because of our past. We are both women pursuing passions outside what society deems appropriate, and I felt protective of her.”
“You have done what you could. Now I will do the rest.”
Regina arched a brow. “If you mean to assist her in some daring, devious literary capacity, I simply must be involved. An olive branch to you both, for all the ways we have misunderstood each other.”
For the first time in a long time, Bridger felt hope.
There was so much to do, he couldn’t command his limbs to cooperate harmoniously. He bid Regina goodbye and returned to the warm, leathery depths of his office, retrieving the manuscript from the bottom right drawer of his desk. Breaths and ideas were coming fast now. They were already in the midst of publishing Regina’s novel, and that would have to be completed before moving on toThe Killbride. But that was all right; that would give him time to hammer out the details of the contract with Regina, source a woodcut, meet with libraries, purchase the materials, set the type, edit for spelling, and so on.
It felt good to have a distraction. For the first time in months, he felt purposeful, focused. And better still, he felt close to Margaret.
26
For where thou art, there is the world itself,
And where thou art not, desolation.
Henry VI, Part 2, Act 3, Scene 2
October
My dear Ann,
Your letter arrived on the very day I noted the leaves outside my window were beginning to change. London will be dressed in orange and gold for your arrival, and you cannot imagine my joy at learning you will soon be here. Papa always referred to me as his summer girl, but I must confess, autumn has always brought me the most delight—to see the world change all around you and feel the days turn crisp and cold is like magic. The gaslights burn as beautifully as any firefly in the meadow at dusk. It eases my mind to think that life is not one season, that the heartaches of these last few months cannot last forever.
Please, please convince me that they cannot last forever.
We mustn’t dwell there. Since I cannot pursue my writing or that other thing (hello, Aunt Eliza, I know you are reading this), I have tried to find ways to keep my mind constantly employed, lest the ideas bubbling within make it burst. Who requires liberty or love when there are rich bachelors and Mayfair townhouses; I am sure that is what my aunt Eliza wishes me to say. You would think all the secrets of the universe could be found in the folds of maiden’s-blush damask silk, so fervently does she covet it.
It will not shock you to hear that I have devoured everything in the little library here. Thank the lord, my aunt’s good friends the Courtenays enjoy an extensive collection and they took pity on me, kindly sending over some selections. Aunt Eliza has strictly forbidden me from attending the raffles at Minerva Press, for she is convinced that a circulating library will be a corrupting influence. Her choices and methods are mysterious to me. I can confess this to you even with my jailors watching, for it is no secret in the house: I tried twice already to smuggle ink and paper into my room in a quantity suitable for drafting. Those fledgling manuscripts were discovered and tossed from the nest. I am likely to try it again if my time here stretches on much longer.
How I miss Mosely and my sisters! How I miss freedom.
But I have the strangest news. I have never told you of my father’s sister, Beatrice, who was cut off from the family after she chose a life on the stage. My father always spoke tenderly of her and kept a locket in his study with her likeness inside. We otherwise knew nothing about her, and we were never introduced, for Papa never corresponded with the lady after she left. My being in London is no secret, as Aunt Eliza has trotted me out exhaustively to every ball and salon in the hopes of luring a suitor, andit must be that way that the name of Arden got about and traveled to the folk now caring for Beatrice in her old age.
She is not well, and the Smiths have taken care of her for months now as she declines. A lingering cold from last winter has not abated and worsens monthly. They are not wealthy, the Smiths, but people of such generosity that I could not help but be moved by their pleas for help; recently they moved Aunt Beatrice from St. Giles to their own home. It is not a Mayfair beauty, but it is suitable for me to visit. Aunt Eliza also does not have a heart of stone, not always, anyway, and has allowed me to help care for Beatrice and to bring her supper every Friday.
And Ann! She is such wonderful company—clever, well-spoken, and, though weak, eager to tell me stories of her youth and her happiest days on the stage. Often, I see what her audiences must have, a shining gem, a woman born to perform and entertain. Sometimes it is just like sitting with Papa again, and it has become such a needed balm for my spirit. We find ourselves discussing the hardship of estrangement, and I’m sure you can imagine where my mind and heart go when that is the subject. It is those Fridays, your letters, and the letters of my sisters that keep me from going completely mad. Violet says she will come to see me soon, we only await Aunt Eliza’s permission.
Give Lane my love and keep as much as you need for yourself. Do not worry about me; I think I can endure anything so long as I have books enough to read. That is what I tell myself when the nights are too lonely to bear.
Yours,
Maggie
“I wonder, Margaret, at your lack of a husband.”
She sat by the fireside with Beatrice while her aunt sippedher fortifying soup. Maggie had been lost in thought, watching the flames dance and shiver, remembering the exact warmth of the hearth on the night she and Bridger slept at the vicar’s parsonage. The question made her jump back into herself, and she fussed idly with the stitching that was in her lap, which she had been poking at on and off while she chatted with Beatrice and kept her company.
She had been trying to embroider a lovely pastoral rabbit, but Winny was the artisan of the family. Her poor little rabbit looked more like a lopsided weasel.
“You are young and clever and lovely,” said Beatrice, hovering over the bowl. The Smiths kept a small, tidy home, unremarkable but for the curtains, which were of excellent quality and thickness; they had made their money in that trade. “How is it that you have not married?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Maggie replied. Beatrice had never accepted a husband or had children, though she had shamelessly recalled for Maggie a long list of lovers, from actors to politicians to dukes.
Beatrice set down her spoon and laughed, the laugh degrading into a painful cough. Shifting out of her chair, Maggie offered her a handkerchief, then patiently waited for the fit to stop. She hugged a pretty shawl closer around her thin shoulders; Winny had made it and sent it from Mosely for Maggie to deliver. “You tease me! Who would have me now?”
