Chapter 12

12

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3

Maggie struggled to keep pace with Mr. Darrow as his powerful legs carried him at daunting speed through the house, down the stairs, and to the aptly named Sapphire Library. Every shade of rich blue was represented in the vaulted chamber, giving one the feeling that they were standing inside of a crystal. Though the room itself was spacious, it was also filled to overflowing with cupboards, shelves, tables laden with displayed trinkets, and comfortable, overstuffed furniture. It was perhaps not fashionably appointed, a rarity for Pressmore, but it offered privacy for reading and conversation, as well as a well-stocked brandy cabinet and clear view out onto the south lawn.

They had crossed through the foyer, where a few guests bid one another goodbye. There was a crack of a whip outside on the drive as a carriage pulled away. Mr. Darrow went ahead of her, holding his forefinger to his lips and commanding her to stay where she was. He went swiftly around each shelf, hunting through the nooks of the library, almost silent as his shadow appeared and disappeared, and he crept in and out of the shallow pools of waning candlelight.

"Nobody," he said with a disgruntled sigh. His hair had become quite disheveled, and it gave him a more approachable air. She preferred it, after having him back her into the wall upstairs with an intensity that set her on edge. No man had ever spoken to her that way, with such heat and proximity, his gaze almost painful to hold as he worried over her safety.

Mr. Darrow glanced at his pocket watch. "I fear we have chosen the wrong location…"

"Perhaps our conspirators are very prompt," she replied with a frown. Maggie stepped around him, navigating the cramped aisle between two floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A curved window alcove stuck out from the far wall, lined with a cushioned bench. Crawling onto the bench, she swished the lush blue curtains aside and stuck her nose close to the glass, peering out into the night. A few lanterns still burned along the path to the pond, and to the right of that, a gray snake of cobblestones wound away toward the newly built Grecian temple and its matching garden. "Or else we—"

Maggie fell silent, hearing muted voices from beyond the bookcases behind them. Mr. Darrow had followed her to the alcove, and as she froze, his hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed. Her eyes flew to his, and she watched him search along the wall to their right. There was a large, deep cabinet there, carved with cherubs and vines. With all caution and care, Mr. Darrow took a giant step toward the cabinet, twisted open the handle, and peered inside. Then, without words or a gesture of warning, his strong hand wrapped around Maggie's left wrist, and pulled her inside.

With the door shut, it was pitch-black inside. The cabinet was half-full, one side taken up by wooden shelves laden with brandy bottles, leaving scant space indeed for two adults. Which is to say, it was a perilously tight fit.

"I can't see a thing," she muttered, struggling to even find a face to glare at. Fortunately, it also meant he could not perceive her blushing. Her left side rested snugly against his right, the heat of his leg warming through the thin fabric of her gown.

Mr. Darrow leaned down and lightly tapped the keyhole near the handle.

"You're shorter," he whispered.

Maggie swallowed her tart response, the voices from before moving closer. Whoever had crept into the library behind them followed their same path through the shelves and cases, arriving near the window alcove to speak in low voices. Close as they were, Maggie wondered if Mr. Darrow could feel her pulse hammering against her breastbone; she was certain they were about to learn the identity of their mystery balcony lady.

"I've told Bloom to have the house searched for that detestable Mr. Darrow." It was Aunt Mildred speaking, her voice dripping with venom. Bloom served as steward of the household, overseeing the staff. He was ancient; Maggie couldn't remember Pressmore without him. "My son is convinced he's seducing every woman in the house and leading them astray."

"Every woman except Ann," and this was said by her other aunt, Eliza.

"Oh, he will never speak a word against Ann."

"Nor should we, sister, if she is truly ill…" Aunt Eliza trailed off, sighing.

Maggie scrunched down toward the keyhole, trying to catch a glimpse of the women.

"We will know all about that soon enough; Bloom has sent a boy for the physician, and likely he will arrive by dawn," Mrs. Richmond told her. They were both draped in shawls and Aunt Mildred in particular looked miserably tired. She sat on the bench at the window and gazed out at the darkened grounds. "I can't help but think it is a fiction concocted by our niece. Like my son, she is utterly devoted to Ann."

"Kindred spirits, I think," said Eliza. "They are both hopelessly wild."

Aunt Mildred shook her head. "I tried, you know, to persuade him against it."

"Of course, sister, of course."

"But it seems our family is doomed, saddled with foolish, obstinate children—at least where marriage and the vital choices of life are concerned." She glanced around the library as if distracted and Maggie held her breath. Did she sense them there? Seemingly not, for Aunt Mildred rose and disappeared from her view, then returned a moment later with a glass of brandy. She took up her place on the bench and downed the drink.

" Sister, " Eliza chided.

"What? Oh, save your judgment, Eliza, it is only you and I."

"I see. If I am not allowed to judge, then I suppose I must join you." And Aunt Eliza did exactly that, going to pour her own generous amount of brandy. The two women shared a dry, long-suffering laugh as they reconvened on the plush bench. "Perhaps when the staff conclude their search, Bloom can have someone scrounge up Miss Margaret, who has conveniently vanished since proclaiming Ann's condition."

"Just like Emmeline," said Aunt Mildred in a bleak wheeze. "Worse."

"That remains to be seen." For a brief, uplifting beat Maggie thought Eliza might just stick up for her. "I think Mr. Gibson will have her if he can be persuaded to forget this ridiculous notion of New South Wales. Have you seen his home at Winnowick? Expansive."

Aunt Mildred cackled and went to refill her brandy.

Eliza tapped her finger thoughtfully on the rim of her cup, brow creased in concentration. "And it will be up to us to see that she does not squander her charms on the Darrow boy. I spied them together this evening and there was a familiarity and ease to her posture I did not like. It is only a passing infatuation, I think, and all because of her novel. Her novel! Her novel! Well. We will put a stop to all of that, won't we?"

"Did you see her fingernails? Stained black with ink. Emmeline should have done something years ago," agreed Mildred, returning. "There were indications."

"It is a favor we do Margaret, lest she fracture the family further."

Mildred swanned down onto the cushions and made a weird, strangled sound. "Sometimes I have a mind to forgive Emmy."

"No, sister, no. You mustn't. Any softness now will only encourage Margaret, lead her to believe this behavior of hers is tolerable. Do not forget—it is my cottage they occupy, my goodwill they exploit, my money spent while the girl wastes her youth and beauty on nonsense. I have a mind to withdraw it all, all that charity, and see how smart Miss Margaret believes herself to be then." Eliza snorted down into her cup.

"Too harsh, sister. It is not her doing, after all, these far-fetched dreams. Emmy never put her foot down and the father was too permissive. She is a clever young lady, just a weed grown unmanaged; I have a mind to invite her to stay on at Pressmore so that she might be trimmed back and tamed. A vine without a stake grows unchecked." Aunt Mildred rose elegantly, contemplated the last of her brandy, swallowed it on a shudder, and finished, "We must all compromise eventually. I have faith in us, faith that we will right the wrongs of the mother."

They continued to converse, the topic moving back to Ann's alleged illness and Lane's worry, and when it was clear they were no longer in the library itself, Maggie slumped forward against the cupboard door, her face on fire. It was getting hot in the cramped cupboard, and she had almost forgotten Mr. Darrow was there.

"The wrongs of the mother," she murmured aloud, squeezing her eyes shut. "And yet her great misdeed was marrying Papa."

A gentle hand touched her back and Maggie jumped, remembering the man squished in beside her.

"It's never easy to endure such things," Mr. Darrow said. There was a tight rage to his voice that she couldn't quite interpret. "And overheard, no less. My father had the decency to say it to my face."

"Decency or cruelty?" she asked, exhausted. Exhausted, overheated, and in desperate need of a private sob. Mr. Darrow was quiet. She felt him breathing against her, and it was comforting. Steady. He wasn't clamoring to get out. And why not? Her aunts had just made it abundantly obvious that she was the embarrassment of the family, a broken doll that must be swiftly fixed and lined up for marriage like every other girl of her age. Maggie found the strength to stand, shaky. "I think I shall stay in this cupboard forever."

Mr. Darrow reached past her, gently, and rattled the latch. What must he think of her? She didn't even know what she thought of herself. Ann had put it best: torn in a hundred directions. There was the right thing to do—listen to her aunts, accept their guidance, meekly marry whomever they put in front of her—but in her heart she knew it wasn't the Margaret thing to do. She felt feverish. Jumbled. Her thoughts spun.

"You may just get your wish, Miss Arden. It appears we are trapped."

Mr. Darrow pushed hard against the interior latch, shaking the entire cupboard.

Of course they were. Maggie erupted with laughter. It was too funny, too, too funny.

"I'm glad you're amused, but I'm afraid we are no closer to discovering the identity of our mystery woman, and unless you would like to pass the night together in this—blasted—cupboard!" He punctuated each word with a crunching slam of his shoulder against the door. Blowing out a long breath, he leaned back against the wooden wall and closed his eyes. "Unless you would like to pass the night together in this cupboard, we need to find a way out."

"Right. Forgive me." Maggie brushed a few sweaty strands of hair behind her ear and tried to shake off the sick, jittery feeling trembling through her body. "Let us push together. One, two, three!"

Side by side, they both threw their weight against the jammed door. It flew open with a crack, dumping them unceremoniously on the patterned blue rug just outside, positioned near the window alcove. Maggie landed first, letting out a muted shriek of surprise and alarm as she crumpled to the floor, Mr. Darrow tipping out on top of her. All that time spent on campaign must have sharpened his reflexes, for he nimbly caught himself, hands on either side of her head, only the scantest weight of his hips landing on her. It didn't hurt too badly, but she gasped, her hands flying up to protect her head.

"Are you injured?" he asked, rolling to the side, and kneeling beside her.

The gentle blue glow of the library suited his dark coloring, making twin tempests of his almost black eyes. The sight of him would take a weaker woman's breath away, she thought, then realized she was having trouble catching her own. She had tried to give the hero of The Killbride his same intensity, his same controlled strength. Looking at him then, it was hard to imagine his temper, for he seemed totally contained, gentle in the solicitous probing of his eyes.

He offered his hand, and Maggie took it, captured at once by the calloused warmth of his fingers. That strength she sensed wasn't imagined, for she felt it resonate through his grasp.

She felt the presence watching them before she heard the soft gasp of surprise.

Bridger tugged her smoothly to her feet, half catching her to keep her on balance, while a pale, cool face watched them from the aisle formed by the bookcases. The brighter light of the hallway illuminated her like a winter torch: Regina Applethwaite, unmasked and languidly fanning herself while her eyes gathered frost.

"I'm told your sisters are looking for you, Miss Arden," said Regina, then disappeared, leaving nothing but a chill in her wake.

"This," Miss Margaret murmured, stumbling over her words or her thoughts or both. She hastily pressed a folded piece of paper into Bridger's hands. She stepped back from him, and instantly, he missed her glowing warmth. Even in the gloom of the Sapphire Library's scant candles, he saw she was incandescently flushed. "I was meant to give this to Lane. Ann will be cross with me if he doesn't get it. Can you…Could you…I…"

Bridger grinned, combing a steadying hand through his hair, dismayed to find it was hopelessly mussed. "Of course, Miss Arden. I'll see that he gets it."

She took a few steps away toward the open doors, stopped, and pivoted back toward him. They had been caught, and not by the most forgiving sentinel. He groaned internally thinking of the gossip Regina would spread. Let her. Perhaps it was history repeating itself, his interest in a woman of questionable material means but rich in spirit and mind. And perhaps Regina would hate him even more for it, but a change in him was occurring, a desire to separate himself from the demands and judgments of his father, and it felt good .

It would feel better once he brought Pimm to heel and returned him to Fletcher. Once he was free of his own burdens, once he knew the family fortune wasn't entirely spent, then, oh then, he might finally make a choice for himself—not out of necessity, but out of pure desire.

Bridger watched Margaret leave the library, his heart light then heavy, heavy as he remembered the weight of the words that had been heaped onto her by her aunts. It wasn't his business to know how dire a burden they considered her, but now he did know. He knew, and his heart swelled with sympathy. He tarried just a moment in the oceanic darkness of the Sapphire Library, letting Margaret get some distance from him before he ventured out to find Lane. It wasn't difficult to locate him; Lane was posted at the front doors, anxiously rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited for the physician to arrive from the village.

The house had gone ghostly quiet. Lane stood in the square of light spilling out onto the low stone steps that led up to the house. He looked like an actor on stage, waiting nervously to take his cue.

"There you are!" Lane slumped forward at the sight of his friend. "The day guests have departed, off to whisper about this to anyone who will listen in London, I'm sure. Everyone else is abed. One never knows who one's true friends are until something like this happens. They were content enough to eat our food and toast to our happiness, and now they are equally glad to pick through our lives like vultures. Thank God for the rare, constant friend," said Lane, clapping him on the shoulder. "Say, where have you been?"

"Hunting for Pimm, but I've come up short," he said. I, not we. There was enough scandal fodder on offer. Nobody needed to hear about them getting stuck in a brandy cupboard, and Lane had enough on his plate already. "The search continues in the morning." We, not I. Hopefully. "Have the staff flushed him out?"

"I'm afraid not," Lane murmured, eyes wandering back to the drive, back to the empty space where he hoped the physician would appear. "What has gotten into him?"

"Desperation," Bridger replied in a dark rasp. "He knows he should be penned up at Fletcher like a loose hog, but he's always had a wild nature. He rages against the inevitable. Father needs him, and I need him to look after Father, and Pimm never does what he's told."

"After everything, after…" Lane's thought meandered, and he rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. There was a bluish, ill cast to his face that Bridger disliked. "Blazes, he won't show his face around here again, I'll wager you that."

"Not willingly." Bridger waved that away and guided Lane back inside to where it was at least a bit cheerier in the candlelight. "Let me worry about Pimm, yes? Here, Ann wanted you to have this."

Bridger produced the note Margaret had entrusted him with and offered it solemnly to his friend.

"And how did you get it?"

"Your cousin. She was meant to deliver it earlier in the evening, but you ran off to tend to Ann before she could do it."

Lane tore open the note, reading it silently, his lips forming the words. His eyes softened and his shoulders lowered, the hard-coiled knot of nerves in his back unwinding all at once. "Oh, my darling," he murmured. Bridger couldn't help but share in his friend's relief as Lane handed him the tiny slip of paper. It simply read:

Trust that your heart knows the answer.

"We'll find Pimm," Bridger promised him. "And the lady impersonating your wife."

Lane nodded, absent. "Mother is furious, and I strove in earnest to bring her around to Ann's qualities. Now this. Now this…"

Bridger repeated his vow and took leave of his friend. It was all he could do for the moment, but his friend's despair had leapt to him like a disease. He really ought to be leaving for London in the morning, but now he had to chase his idiot brother down. In his absence, work at the publishing firm would crawl to a stop, and he felt a choking sensation rise in his throat as he pictured again the ledgers from his family estate. It was as if Pimm couldn't help himself, couldn't stop himself from making everything worse. He cleared his throat, but the tight feeling remained; lord, it felt like it was up to him to solve his family's problems and Lane's. Alone.

Maybe not alone. He half smiled at the thought of meeting up with Miss Arden in the morning to continue their search. Perhaps there was one advantage to delaying his return to town. That smile disappeared as quickly as it arrived, for he then remembered the savage dressing-down her aunts had given. Margaret Arden was not rich with a tempting dowry, and what Bridger needed more than anything at that moment was a solution to his financial problems. His throat itched and burned; it felt like the world was pressing down around him. If he was expecting to find anyone lying in wait near his guest chamber, ready to attempt another ambush, it was Pimm. Instead, he discovered Regina, hands folded primly by her waist, tarrying near the pastoral tapestry hung beside the door. He was already thoroughly exhausted and seeing her there, eyes bright with mischief, nearly crushed his patience into dust.

Not now. Curse her devilish timing.

Bridger opened his mouth to inquire what it was she wanted, but Regina launched in before he could make a sound.

"What are your intentions with the Arden girl?" she asked, subtly moving between him and the door. Regina, physically angelic in every respect, had retained her beauty in the years between their meetings, but there was a hardness to her cheeks and chin now that hadn't been there before. It wasn't gauntness exactly, but like she had been chiseled into a more severe iteration.

"My intentions are my own, madam," Bridger replied, stiff. He regarded her down the length of his nose, eager to escape this confrontation and climb into bed. That burning feeling in his throat spread down to his chest, his heart beating faster. "We are little more than acquaintances these days, and I find the question impertinent."

"Impertinent?" Regina laughed, heedless of the late hour. She came closer, narrowing her pale blue eyes. "You have no idea, do you? No idea what you did."

His patience vanished. His temper, which he thankfully never lost toward a woman, emerged without warning.

"I beg your pardon?" Bridger shook his head, squeezed the edges of his eyebrows, and tried to dodge around her. Regina wouldn't budge, even as she eyed him with increasing fear. "Right. I see you are determined to enlighten me."

Regina's mouth hung open for an instant, a rare chink in her otherwise flawless social decorum. Swiftly, she composed herself and moved aside, granting him access to his room. "Do you even remember how you addressed me in those letters? The belittling? The condescension? I didn't write a word of my own for years, and it took me that long to recover the barest confidence!"

Her voice climbed to a frantic pitch. Bridger found it hard to look at her. Regina took a few steps forward, as if she meant to follow him. His temper soared again. "Back away," he commanded, hostile enough to make her freeze. In a calmer tone, he continued, "I do remember our correspondence, Miss Applethwaite. At the time, there were questions…objections. My father insisted—"

"Those letters were written in your hand, Bridger," she cut in, setting her jaw. "Yours, not your father's."

If he could rest a little, have time to think and gather his thoughts, he might offer a satisfactory explanation…But no. She insisted on pressing him on this subject. She didn't have the context, and she didn't understand. Nobody but his brother, mother, and the staff at Fletcher knew what it was like to live with his father. He might be a sickly, frail man now, but not then, oh no, not then. It had taken years of military experience to dampen the terror he experienced in his father's presence. Even home from France, even hardened, that fear lingered. "Youthful mistakes," he muttered, waving her off. "Ancient history."

Regina's voice quavered as she pinned him with one last skewering look, vowing: "I won't let you do it again, do you hear me? I won't let you break her spirit the way you broke mine."

Bridger took one step toward her, a new edge to his temper, a hard reaction from a soft place. "Is that a threat, Regina?"

She shrank from him and ran, and the minute he was alone, he felt the cold plunge of guilt.