Chapter 14

14

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 1

The clouds sank lower by the minute as Maggie hurried down the gentle slope toward the hedge maze. The picnic goers had gone around, but she knew the path, cutting through the maze, remembering when to veer left and when to dodge around the false wall behind the satyr statue. At last, she reached the other side of the maze, trotting out onto a shallow overlook with a view down to the lower gardens carved out below. She tiptoed along the strip between the maze and the steep wall of rocks to her right, then hopped over a few decorative rocks and started down the stone steps leading to the temple.

At the bottom of the stairs the land flattened out, hemmed in neatly by yew hedges and cypresses planted at intervals, stone plinths holding Grecian statues dotting the natural, shadowy nooks created by the trees. All of this flanked the temple "ruins," preciously dilapidated and strewn across the middle of the clearing, a pretty snarl of cedar and more cypresses growing about and through the commissioned temple. Bright profusions of hawthorn, roses, and lilac dotted the hillside near the steps, along with cascading, terraced rows of vibrantly blue cornflowers and white-and-purple starburst columbines.

A bracing wind shook the heavy heads of the flowers, and Maggie hugged herself, shivering. As she reached the last step, she paused and watched the staff lay out the blankets and baskets for the guests. There was a subdued energy to the proceedings, and everyone seemed to speak in low tones, the grim atmosphere of the house reaching even here. Maggie wasn't insensible to it, either, watching as Regina Applethwaite broke away from one small party near the temple and glided to where her aunt Eliza stood apart and aloof. Her aunt looked dreary indeed, but her countenance brightened a little at Regina's approach. Whatever their urgent conversation entailed, Maggie couldn't tell, but she started to move closer, hoping to eavesdrop.

That hope was dashed as Winny and Violet hurried down the stone steps behind her and enveloped her, one sister on either side.

"You're supposed to be with Ann," Maggie chided lightly.

"The doctor dismissed us," said Winny, sounding regretful. "But Emilia has returned to her side. Poor Ann, the man is bleeding her dry."

"Then he fell for the ruse?" asked Maggie, leading them subtly closer to where Eliza and Regina spoke.

"Oh, yes, I gave the performance of a lifetime," said Violet, puffing out her chest.

"And scared the doctor half to death," added Winny. "Mrs. Richmond has brought out a chair and is sitting right in front of Ann's door. I fear she is not so gullible as Mr. Madigan."

"Which brought us to you." Violet sighed and pulled away, standing on the edge of the picnic blankets, eyeing the rolls and meats being brought out to eat. "Have you gone through the temple yet for traces of our couple?"

"No," Maggie told her. It was no use, the wind was blowing against them, carrying Eliza and Regina's words far, far away to dance with whatever pages of her manuscript were stuck in the trees bordering the property. "I've only just arrived, and I was hoping to find Mr. Darrow, as we were something of a pair on this search."

"I don't see him," Winny said, surveying the gardens beneath the yellow brim of her large bonnet. "But—oh, dear—I do see Mr. Gibson, and he is coming this way. Do you think Aunt Eliza spoke to him? Perhaps he is in love with you already. That gown suits you so well, sister."

"Isn't he in love with a whale?" Violet guffawed.

"New South Wales," Winny and Maggie replied in unison. And too loudly. Mr. Gibson's ears perked up, and his pace quickened. Violet threaded her arm back through Maggie's and began leading them away, following the edge of the picnic blankets to the right, and carrying them toward the temple proper.

"Well! I won't apologize, I've hardly slept a wink and skipped breakfast entirely, and you know I am cross and useless without food," said Violet, sticking her nose in the air. "Either way, we must avoid him, and find your Mr. Darrow so the search can continue. Mrs. Richmond will explode if the doctor realizes Ann isn't dying of a broken heart and reports as much."

"I don't see Mr. Darrow," said Winny.

Maggie couldn't locate him either and she couldn't hide her disappointment. They were supposed to meet again, weren't they? Perhaps she should have been clearer, perhaps—

"Now that is an interesting expression," said Violet, studying her. "And, come to think of it, Mr. Darrow is coming up an awful lot."

"A notable amount," agreed Winny.

Violet swiped a finger sandwich in passing, behind the backs of a canoodling picnic couple. "A suspicious amount. You could certainly do worse, if you can forgive him for all his rudeness about your book. You know, he's pointy but in a pleasing way." Violet devoured the sandwich in two bites. "He sort of reminds me of a handsome stoat, a stoat with a noble profile and inscrutable intentions. Mythical, almost."

Winny giggled. They were nearing the round mouth at the base of the Grecian temple. A border of blue and gold mosaic stones followed the line of the arch. "Oh, yes! Like one of Oberon's courtiers, don't you agree?"

"Perhaps he is all of those things," said Maggie, wilting. Where is he? "But Aunt Eliza does not think him suitable, and therefore we must set him aside."

"Since when does Aunt Eliza control your life?" Violet snorted.

"She controls all of our lives, Violet. Without her charity, we would have nothing."

"Cousin Lane would help us," said Violet, shrugging. "He wouldn't let us suffer."

"And is that what you want?" Maggie realized she was peckish and peevish, too, having been too distracted at her desk to eat much of her breakfast. Too distracted by Mr. Darrow, no less. Fool! "To go from person to person, hands out, begging? One of us must make an advantageous match, and why not me?"

Violet and Winny shrank from her in unison. Of course, Violet regained her courage first. "Because your eyes get all wibbly and soft when we mention Mr. Darrow?"

Maggie clamped her mouth shut in anger. There was no arguing with Violet because she was completely right.

"Then I suppose Aunt Eliza has won, since you are making all of her annoying arguments for her," Violet continued, a little vicious. "You can announce her victory now, in fact, since she's spotted Mr. Gibson and she's coming this way."

"Get inside the temple, go!" Winny told her, and together, the sisters formed a little wall, allowing Maggie to slip below the arch and into the shadowy embrace of the structure. It smelled like wet stones and dried flowers, and a steady drip from somewhere echoed loudly with each rhythmic plop . Immediately in front of her was a small water fountain, nearly empty, though that was the source of the dripping. A stone statue of woodland animals at play rose from the shallow dish of the fountain, and some rose petals had been sprinkled across the still, stagnant water. A spiral of stone steps led up to the second floor, the stairs just to the right of the fountain. The voices of her sisters faded as she silently tiptoed up and up, drawn by what sounded like a soft scratching or pawing. Any number of animals or birds might have nested in the temple, but she crept cautiously just in case, gently hoisting her petticoat and skirt.

As soon as her head peeked above the lip of the landing, she noticed the remnants of a fire on the gray, dusty floor. There was an empty cup, too, several discarded quills, and charred bits of paper among the ruins of the fire. A blanket, too fine to have been here for long, and of a rich enough weave to have been taken from the house, was folded haphazardly near the cup. She knelt and gingerly picked up the vessel, giving it a sniff before balking at the stench of old liquor. Someone had passed significant time here, spent the night here; her senses tingled, and she felt certain this had been the actual location for the clandestine meeting mentioned in the note.

Her searching was cut short by a shadow falling across her vision, then a strong hand gripping her forearm and pulling her back to standing. Maggie whirled, gasping, pulled swiftly into a man's crushing embrace.

Bridger stared down into Miss Arden's face with a grunt of recognition.

"?'Tis only you," he murmured, and though his grip loosened, she remained in his arms. The lady's hands had flown up in defense, and now rested on his chest. As soon as Margaret recognized him, she stopped struggling.

"Only me," she replied softly. Her lips remained slightly parted in the most tempting way, and her huge blue eyes blinked up at him with something more than relief. Urgency, maybe, and, unless he was imagining it, interest. Bridger was slapped hard with the memory of his first glimpse of her, flushed and earnest at her aunt's poetry salon, gripping her smuggled-in manuscript with the desperation of a drowning sailor clinging to debris. It would have been charming if he hadn't been in such a bleak mood, ambushed at the event with news of his brother's philandering in Bath. She had been beautiful then, and she was even more beautiful now, unpretentious, vital, and unexpectedly pliant in his embrace. They were alone in the echoing cavern of the temple's heart, and her eyes ensnared him; Bridger gathered her closer, lowered his head, and kissed her.

Margaret's lips felt like the summer sun burning through cold rain. He swallowed her gasp of surprise, leaned into her, cradled the back of her neck beneath her bonnet, and felt the sweat gathering there under her hair. Just once, his tongue speared into her mouth, and just once, she arched subtly against him, and then her better judgment must have crashed down, and she pushed him away.

There was a need to keep her, but Bridger only wanted what was freely given. She touched her own lips in surprise, roses gathering in her cheeks. Margaret backed out of his grasp, flattening herself against the column of stone central to the structure.

"Forgive me," Bridger said, watching her. "I acted impulsively. It won't happen again."

Margaret shook her head. "Why did you grab me like that?"

"Your bonnet is most concealing, Miss Arden, you could have been our mystery woman."

"I see," she said, though her pulse still raced. He watched it pound against the slim pillar of her throat. "Lord, Mr. Darrow, you frightened me, and then…"

He didn't like to hear that. It reminded him of Regina's fear the night before, the way she had run from him. It reminded him of the monster he had been forced to become in France, the cold creature he desperately wanted to forget. A creature not unlike his father, temperamental and full of rageful pain.

"And then?" he asked, bracing.

"Do you need me to say it?" she replied. "To revisit it?"

"I wouldn't mind it if you did."

"You frightened me," Margaret said slowly, almost shyly. "And then…you kissed me—my very first kiss, in fact, sir—and for now it somewhat defies description."

He arched a brow while hers furrowed. "A writer at a loss for words?"

Margaret's now-familiar smile returned, and he relaxed. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

Clearing his throat, taking pity on her, Bridger took his walking cane and prodded the remains of the fire near Margaret's feet. "Right. Thanks to me we veered from our purpose here. It appears you were right about the temple; we should have ventured here last night."

She dislodged herself from the pillar and scooped up a burned scrap of parchment, studying it, then pressed her gloved fingers to her chin thoughtfully. A bit of char transferred, leaving a gray mark on her chin.

"The doctor is with Ann now," said Margaret. There was almost nothing legible on the paper (he had already looked himself, making out only the words "greatly desire that") and she let it drift out of her fingers and to the blackened floor. "He has fallen for our stories for now, but I don't know how long that will last. Mrs. Richmond has taken up a post outside Ann's room, and without some proof of her innocence, I fear she will pressure Lane to annul the marriage."

"Lane would never agree to that," Bridger replied, stern. He was beginning to sense what it was like to be utterly devoted to one woman, and if Lane's heart at all mirrored his, such a move was unthinkable.

"Maybe, maybe not, but Mrs. Richmond is a tenacious woman," she said, a little sad. That sadness pulled him toward her, and he carefully wiped the smudge off of her chin. Her clear blue eyes pierced him, glazed with regret, perhaps, or sorrow. God, but he wanted to kiss her again. "And we all give in to family pressures we never thought we would."

"You have no idea how right you are," he replied. His fingertips lingered on her chin, enticed by the warmth of her skin, touchable and soft even through the leather of his glove. The impulse that rose in him was almost enough to knock the wind out of his chest; he wanted to hold her face and taste her again. Only a few hours away from her, and he had subsided into navel-gazing loneliness. He had wondered if she would come, but she had, and now they could continue the hunt together. Loneliness. He couldn't believe how swiftly the dread retreated in her presence.

You don't have to do this alone.

A quick, dry scratching sound made him withdraw. It would damage both of their reputations but hers in particular if they were found like that together, or if a bystander learned of their secret embrace. There were small, round holes near the floor, windows of a sort that looked out onto the gardens. The sound had come from below them but dissipated almost instantly. Bridger strode to the round wall of the temple and ducked down. Margaret joined him, pressing close, he noted with no small amount of satisfaction. It seemed her fear had dwindled.

"Look there," said Margaret, pointing.

A figure, obscured by a long, dark cloak, but feminine in appearance, raced from the temple. She fled away from the picnic, the temple itself shielding her from the guests reclining and eating on blankets.

"She must have heard us and thought better of coming up the stairs," Bridger replied in a whisper. "I wonder if they were to meet again."

Margaret righted herself and hurried to the stairs.

"What are you waiting for?" she demanded, pausing there on the top step, and twisting toward him.

"Let me follow her," Bridger replied. "You should return to the picnic."

"Follow her?" She was aghast. "Alone?"

Bridger's face tightened. "I…It would be safer if you remained here."

"Sir, I have summered here almost every year of my life since I was a child. I know the paths and secret places of Pressmore as well as I know the backs of my hands." Margaret descended the stairs, and he raced to her side. "I do hope that my sisters will forgive me for leaving them behind like this. Violet is always keen for an adventure."

"I'm sure they will understand our reasoning," he said, lowering his tone as they neared the bottom of the stairs. "For I feel certain this is our mystery woman."

"I feel it, too," she replied, and the consensus bolstered him.

They turned sharply beneath the stairs. The structure was new, and this was his first time exploring it, but there must have been a back entrance the woman used. A small gardener's hatch had been built into the far wall, and Bridger shouldered it open with a grunt, powdery dust falling on them both as they returned to daylight.

A discouraging sprinkling of rain made the cloaked lady's progress across the lawn less noticeable as she disappeared into a break in the yew hedges along the eastern edge of the garden. The rain brought out the ripe, true quality of the plants surrounding them—roses immediately rosier, cedar bark upon the nose like the tingling of a shallow cut, a full and rounded lushness leaping out, giving the impression of being stuffed into a hothouse on a humid day. A few cries of alarm rose from the other side of the temple as the first raindrops fell on the picnic.

"Where do you suppose she is going?" asked Margaret as they followed the damp path through the grass left by the lady.

"You know the grounds better than I."

"There's a trail that leads through Worton Woods. It's really only used for hunting. I wonder…Hmm, if you followed it east long enough, it might meet the road to Cray Arches. If your brother is trying to avoid the estate, he could find a room there at the Gull and Knave."

They reached the dense row of yew hedges, and Margaret found a narrow gap between branches, scampering through. Bridger bashed a few of the branches until there was enough room for him to fit, then followed. Just as she had described, they stumbled out onto a rutted, faded path.

"That sounds like an establishment with liquor enough to interest Pimm," Bridger muttered, fixing his eyes east. As he did, he caught sight of their quarry. They both melted back against the hedges and brush, silently following the woman within the shadow of that thorny wall. The lady half ran, making it difficult to keep pace with her quietly. Rain lashed them with the fickle rise and fall of the wind. Bridger went first, Margaret following, and for almost half an hour they managed to chase the lady unseen. But then the rain drove harder, and as he squinted through the misty drizzle, a horse and rider eased out onto the path ahead. It was hard to tell if the rider had come from down the road or a gap in the yew. The mystery lady reached up toward the male rider, who leaned down and easily pulled her onto the saddle, partially in his lap. Before they took off down the lane, the lady peered over her shoulder, and there was no doubt in his mind that she noticed them there, watching.

Margaret ran a few steps forward, but cursed under her breath as the rider dug his heels into the beast, and they sped off. She held her bonnet in place as a gust of wind tore at them, her gaze drifting back toward the way they had come.

"Should we go back? We will never catch them now."

"I trust your assessment, Miss Arden—if the path will take us to Cray Arches, we might inquire at the inn for my brother. He's hard to miss, and always making a nuisance of himself. The barkeep and patrons would remember such a fellow."

The wind screamed up the path from behind them. Margaret shivered, underdressed for the weather, and he could see the hesitation in her eyes and huddled posture. "We've come this far, let's proceed to Cray Arches."

They walked a long way in silence, the trees growing denser and closer, hemming them in, Margaret's bones practically clacking from the cold drizzle. Finally, Bridger couldn't stand it and pulled off his tiered coat, heavy and wool, and settled it over her shoulders. During the coldest nights of the campaign, freezing in their tents, Bridger had distracted the men with riddles and questions, and it had always eased their suffering and made the time slip by. "It's unusual for a lady to cultivate such an interest in writing. I imagine there is a story there."

Margaret's eyes remained fixed on the narrow road ahead. His coat swallowed her up, and the rain had made a droopy mess of the flowers and ribbons on her bonnet. Even bedraggled, she kept her chin high. Her teeth chattered less and less as she answered him. "Papa made the mistake of reading Romeo and Juliet to me at a tender age. He…softened some of the more scandalizing parts. Even so, I despised the ending. Ten years old, and I needed them to live on, so I wrote it for myself. And then Hamlet, too, and then Titus Andronicus ."

Barking with laughter, Bridger wiped the hair back from his forehead, finding it had become completely sodden from the steady rain. "You aren't telling me you read that at ten years of age."

"Papa didn't keep things from me," she replied with a shrug of his huge coat. "If he wanted a son instead, he never said as much. Maybe he should have been more delicate with my education—the governess thought so—but I delighted in stories. I don't think he had the heart to curb my curiosity." With a laugh, she paused and looked up at him. "You wouldn't recognize that Margaret. She was soft-spoken and demure, but when Papa died something changed. I couldn't see the point in anything, all the parts of me I was hiding tore loose, and, well, you heard my aunts. Now I'm nothing I'm supposed to be."

There was a rumbling, clattering sound from the path behind them.

Bridger heard it, watched Margaret hear it, and stepped closer to her. The wheels bumping up the road must have drowned out his next words, for Margaret didn't react to them. "Or perhaps you're exactly what you were meant to be."

"Hello there!" she called, waving to the cart as it appeared through the haze of rain and mist. "They've come from Pressmore," Margaret told him, beaming with relief. "That's Foster, he works on the grounds. Let us hope he is going to Cray Arches."

She charged up to the driver as the cart slowed and came up alongside them.

"Miss Arden, this is no weather for a walk through the countryside!" cried Foster. He was gray-haired with a wide, friendly face and thick freckles clustered over his nose.

"I know it, Foster! Mr. Darrow and I were seeking more pages for Ann's game and wandered too far from the picnic," she said over the drumming of the rain. "I should know the grounds better, but now I fear we are hopelessly far afield. Are you going to Cray Arches by any chance?"

It was a clever enough story, and Foster nodded along, flicking his head toward the back of the covered cart. "Aye, miss, exactly I am! House ran low on duck eggs, and it's all Mrs. Richmond will have for her breakfast. The vicar Mr. Corner keeps a few hens. Storm or fine, the mistress will have what she wants."

Foster looped the reins around a knob on the box, jumped down with a splash, and went around to the back of the cart to pull the hinge and let down the barrier for them. Foster bowed his head respectfully as Miss Arden hurried to the back of the cart.

"You're miraculous, Foster. My thanks!" she called.

"Storm is rolling in," he told them as they both climbed into the dusty, hay-strewn belly of the wagon. "We'll be lucky to make it back to Pressmore fore nightfall."

When they were in, Foster secured the hinge and waddled back to the front of the cart. The horses whickered and jolted, and they clattered down the puddly path. They settled down onto the extra horse blankets in the back, side by side, and quietly stared out of the back of the cart, watching the trees sway and their branches droop low, drenched and darkened.

"Thank you for this," said Margaret, crawling out of his coat.

"Keep it."

She did, and they lapsed into silence once more. It was uneasy, for Bridger could all but hear her mind whistling like a kettle. If she was anything like him, her thoughts had returned to the temple, to the embrace, to their lips sealed together. His right hand lay flat on the blanket between them, Margaret's left pinky nearly touching him.

Perhaps we should not have kissed, but I would do it again, a hundred times over, just to feel the loneliness recede for another brilliant moment.

Instead, Bridger said, "We were discussing your early works."

"Oh, yes," Margaret replied, absent, gazing at the rain.

" Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet …Your father must have had some profound love for Shakespeare," he began. He couldn't help it, he wanted to draw more out of her. Even caught in the rain, it was the most pleasant afternoon he had spent with someone in years. "Did he ever explain the origin of that obsession?"

"His sister," she told him in a dreamy whisper. "Her name was Beatrice, and if his stories were accurate, she was wild indeed. She fled the family to live in London and be an actress, and they stopped acknowledging her altogether. Papa read plays to feel closer to her, and when he could afford a few books of his own, gathered them for his library. I never knew her, but Papa says I resemble her closely. He almost convinced Mamma to name me Beatrice, but he was afraid it was inappropriate due to the estrangement." Margaret's voice trailed off, sad. "I sometimes wonder if she is still alive, and if she even knows Papa is gone."

Bridger stared at the paper-thin gap between their fingers. "You could look for her in London."

"Mm. That would certainly please my aunts." Her mouth drew down at the mention of them.

"The name Beatrice would have suited you," he said, guiding them back to a lighter subject. "How does it go? ‘I would my horse had the speed of your tongue'?"

It had the intended effect. Margaret broke into a mischievous smile. "Indeed! Then, perhaps you should have been called Benedick, mm? ‘A good soldier to a lady.'?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss Arden, for I am not much of anything to a lady these days. Not until my fortunes improve and the burdens of my family are lessened." He shifted at the probing look she gave him. "But I have lately acquired a very promising manuscript, and I know it will be the spark that lights a blaze of luck."

Margaret swiveled to face him, eyes alight with curiosity. "What sort of manuscript?"

"About a group of traders in the Americas, exploring caves, their secrets laid bare as their circumstances deteriorate," Bridger explained, encouraged by her interest.

"Who is the writer? Is it rude to ask?"

"Not at all, Miss Arden. A new author, G. R. Neeve."

Margaret fell silent, then quietly laughed, and shook her head. The sodden ribbons of her bonnet finally gave, and it fell off of her head. She pulled it off, settled her loosely pinned hair, and set the bonnet in her lap. Her hand returned to where it had been, and this time he noticed her pinky finger pressed tight to his.

"What?" he asked in response to her laughter. "Jealous?"

"Oh no, no," said Margaret. "It's nothing…Well, but it's just funny, isn't it? G. R. Neeve? Think on it, Mr. Darrow. Do you not see? Rearrange the letters and it's the word revenge ."

A cold feeling bloomed across his chest, then he flushed. "A coincidence, surely. Lots of letters spell lots of things."

"A coincidence, yes, you're probably right." Margaret slumped forward a little. "Will this rain ever stop?"

"It had better," he said, gruff. "Or we shall be stranded in the village overnight."

Margaret went pale. She drew her hands back into her lap and shivered. The trees scraped and creaked, the wind blasting against the cart's covering. "My aunts will be frantic if I do not return, for how could I slip any lower in their estimations? No, no, Mr. Darrow, that simply cannot happen."