Chapter 15

15

She loved me for the dangers I had passed,

And I loved her that she did pity them.

Othello, Act 1, Scene 3

It happened.

With a chill, the blood drained out of Maggie's face as they stood before the proprietor at the Gull and Knave, both of them soaked and bedraggled, hungry and tired. She was still shivering beneath the heavy, dark shell of Mr. Darrow's coat, and probably looked like a half-drowned turtle. They had said goodbye to Foster hours before, with an understanding that they would depart the inn for Pressmore just before sunset. None of that came to plan. The pair made inquiries up and down the shops of Cray Arches, but many of the stores had closed up early, the storm driving folk back to their homes. It was a cramped village, though charming on a better day, the shops clustered along the main thoroughfare, squat homes fanned out like cards into the low hills. There was no sign of Paul Darrow or their cloaked lady, and Maggie was beginning to worry they had not ridden into Cray Arches at all or diverted elsewhere due to the weather. At last, when the wind shrieked in earnest and all the windows in all the shops went dark, they retreated to the Gull and Knave, defeated, to find Foster was not there waiting for them.

Bristling and well-bristled, the proprietor barely looked up from his ledger. He was a tremendous brick of a man, black-haired, with a streak of gray shot through his thick curling beard. His nostrils twitched with increasing irritation after each of their questions, almost in uncanny time with the nervous bounce of Maggie's right leg.

"One room left, is all," the proprietor grunted. He drummed his fingers on the worn table between them, a bright blue ring flashing on his pinky.

"I understand that, and thank you," said Bridger, speaking for them both. While he questioned the bearded man, her eyes roamed the main room of the inn. It was like many posts along the busy road, a warm and relatively upstanding location fit for any travelers changing carriages or resting on a long journey. The clientele was what she expected to find—well-dressed ladies and gentlemen quietly having their suppers, eyes a little big and spooked from the sudden rage of the storm outside.

The inn shook, a clap of thunder making the present ladies gasp and sit up straighter.

"Has a man come through? About this tall, broad-shouldered but hunched, with a scowl and dark hair? Or in your ledger there, do you see the name Mr. Paul Darrow? It's urgent that we locate him," said Bridger, leaning toward the man.

With obvious frustration, the proprietor placed his bulging forearms on top of the messy rows in the ledger. "And what business do you have with him?"

Bridger paused, and Maggie watched his hands open and close as he considered the man's question. She almost jumped in for him, but he replied smoothly, "A dear relation of his has taken ill at Pressmore Estate. It's fallen to me to relay this to him."

"You?" The proprietor's black eyes drifted from Bridger to Maggie and lingered there. She tried not to shrink, for he had an imposing aura.

"Indeed, me." Bridger took a small step in front of her, blocking the man's view. "And my…wife. Yes, my wife, Mrs. Racburn."

Wife? Maggie froze. He was making their predicament worse by the second. Her stomach burned and not from hunger; Aunt Eliza was going to strangle her with her own bonnet ribbons when this was discovered. It was like a drumbeat running under everything: he kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed . And when she could tear her mind away from it, it found another avenue of panic, sealing their fate by the minute, the inevitability of being stranded overnight in Cray Arches with Mr. Darrow.

"That make you Mr. Racburn?" The proprietor snorted and scribbled something at the bottom of the ledger.

"It does."

"No Darrow here that I know of."

"But any man of that description that—"

"Right." The proprietor swished his cheeks and smacked his lips, unmoving, his big arms still blocking their view of the books. Her eyes drifted back to the ring on the man's finger; it was peculiar, out of place amidst his ill-fitting shirt and mended coat. "One room left, Mr. Racburn. I suggest taking it before the next folks step up."

Bridger's face had turned bright red, but so had Maggie's. It was wise to conceal their true names, and it would be the height of impropriety for them to be together that way and unmarried, but it still shocked her. His shade of crimson was different, however, and those fists of his were balling up tighter. Bridger's jaw worked back and forth, his temper rising to the surface like fire bubbling through a forge.

" Dear husband, perhaps we should simply take the man's advice," said Maggie, placing an insistent hand on Bridger's elbow. He tensed at her touch, then flinched. "The storm is only getting worse, and it would be a long, miserable walk back to Pressmore."

The doors behind them flew open with a bang. A muddied driver clutching his hat stumbled inside. "Carriage overturned half mile out," he roared, leaning against the wall. "Roads are flooded, worst I've seen in six summers."

They took the room.

He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed.

The drumming in her head beat on, faster. Maggie told herself it was just a contingency; the rain would ease, and they would find Foster, then return to Pressmore before dark. More thunder boomed outside. Once relieved of their sodden coats, they took a table in the shadowed alcove beneath the stairs, and shillings were exchanged for a bottle of port and some venison in a dark sauce, as well as snail ragout. Bridger couldn't sit still and kept glancing around, his attention wandering most frequently to the proprietor and the front doors.

"Racburn?" Maggie asked, grateful for the stomach-warming wine that was brought. Maybe if she drank enough of it, she could forget all about the grim fate that awaited her back at the estate. Her fingers were like ice as she tried to spoon sauce into her mouth.

"Hm?" Bridger hadn't touched his food. He appeared as nervous as she felt.

"Is something the matter?" she asked. "Besides the obvious, I mean."

"That lout is lying to us," he growled, glaring at the proprietor once more. He was currently bent double, speaking to a young boy who worked in the kitchens. That same boy, straw-haired and sallow, was making frequent trips up and down, taking things to the rooms upstairs in between tongue-lashings for laziness from the proprietor.

"I'm sure staring at him like that will endear him to us."

"No, you're right. I just…Something about this place feels wrong."

"Perhaps when everyone is drunk, we will have a better chance to pry for information," Maggie suggested. "Those gentlemen in the corner have been letting the ale flow freely since we walked in. If they saw your brother in the village, they might speak of it with loosened tongues later."

At that, Bridger fell silent, concentrating on his food for a moment, but only to move it around his plate. He sneaked little glances at her, and Maggie tried not to feel self-conscious about it. The silence was agonizing, so she filled it by talking about what she knew they liked, books. "I've recently finished a volume of poetry by William Cowper. Do you know him?"

"I know his work well," said Bridger, distracted.

She launched into her feelings on the poems, which ones she preferred, and which she felt were lacking. By and by, it drew him out, as she knew it would. Bridger did not hesitate to offer his own view of Cowper's work, and she found his insights very sharp indeed. They then debated the merits of Ovid, Henry Fielding, Sir Walter Scott, E.T.A. Hoffmann, and marveled at the correspondence between Maria Edgeworth and Scott, and their subsequent friendship. They agreed that Waverley was excellent, though Bridger preferred Scott's poetry, which was a sensible opinion. Maggie asked him, perhaps a bit pleadingly, to describe the bookbinding process more clearly as he had observed it, and he obliged her. His eyes danced as he did so, and the darkness of his mood slipped away. His passion for his work was undeniable, and it enhanced every quality of his face, leading him to smile more, and even rounding out the tone of his voice. It was easy to talk with him, and Maggie realized that hours had flown by before they once again encountered an uneasy silence.

"Thank you," he told her gruffly, being the one to break that quiet. "For…before…when we first arrived. You were right to intervene." Bridger nodded discreetly to the gruff bearded proprietor. As the conversation became easier and more animated, they both lost their aversion to eating. When their plates and bowls were empty, more was brought out, Bridger tucking back into his ragout. "He reminds me of my father. Mouth like a bear trap, every word exchanged an offense or inconvenience."

"I pity your mother."

"That would be a waste of your sympathies," he replied, brooding over his bowl. "She's been gone a long time. Racburn is a family name, from her side."

Maggie felt the sadness ripple off of him in palpable waves. He may wish to portray himself as detached, but she could tell there was something deeper going on. The wind howled mercilessly. She huffed and looked around, coming to dire terms with the fact that they might really be stuck there. Hours of literary debate had not chased off the storm. The smell of his coat lingered on her clothing, a rich mixture of his soap, tobacco, and a faint, woodsy scent she couldn't place. He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed. "What was she like, your mother? Paint me a picture."

"I wish I could, but I'm afraid it would be just one color. Regrettably—no, shamefully —I know almost nothing about her mind or her soul." He stared down into his wine. "My father worked diligently to disabuse us of the notion that she was a person we should worry about, and when she died, if he mourned for her, I did not witness it. I remember her being quite frail, her voice like a whisper, and her presence calming. She must have been unbearably sad, but she never let us see it."

"Then perhaps you do not dislike Jane Bennet after all; you were just never taught to appreciate soft creatures." Shrugging, she went on, eyes on her food as she dug out the nice bits of potato that were perfectly melty. "What a joy it was to grow up surrounded by women—to know the closeness of sisters, to have a loving mother, and a father who adored her, too."

"Soft creatures," Bridger repeated, shaking his head and laughing dryly. "My father had no patience for such people. Perhaps it's a mercy he never had a daughter. He encouraged Pimm and me to fight over the smallest offense, and scolded whoever gave up first."

"How awful."

"Indeed, Miss Arden. He kept me from Regina, he would gladly keep me from you. I see now that he only ever wanted to make me as lonely and miserable as he is."

The blond boy traipsed up and down the stairs. He grinned at her. Maggie finished eating and more wine was brought. "Whatever transpired between you must have been harrowing—"

"I behaved badly," he said, abruptly, cutting her off. He tugged on the ends of his sleeves with obvious discomfort. "Let us change the subject."

"But—"

"Tell me about your book," Bridger barreled on, undertaking a smile that seemed genuinely to pain him. Her eyes narrowed. The drums in her head were somehow hot now, like a flicked finger striking the bottom of a scorched pan. What didn't he want her to know about Regina? What was he hiding? A heartbreak was one thing, but it was hard not to think of how outrageously his brother had acted. Her eyes cast about the room, as if just thinking about the man could summon him. The rain beat steadily against the windows, driving sideways.

"I want to know about her," she said, leaning forward.

"And I insist we discuss anything else."

He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed.

"No. I think we shall discuss exactly this."

"Miss Arden—"

"If I have no choice but to spend the night masquerading as your wife and sharing a room with you, I have a right to know if something sinister transpired!"

The darkness in his already turbulent eyes redoubled. His upper lip quivered, as if ready to pull into a snarl. "What is there to say? We had an understanding when I left for France. My father wasn't fond of her demeanor or her family's low connections, relations deteriorated, and there were complicated feelings on both sides. He had no way of knowing—and neither did I—that the Applethwaites would soon come into money and move in more elevated circles."

Maggie reached for the wine. The alcohol was making her head feel stuffed, too full of hot, throbbing blood. Why was he suddenly so secretive? "Is that all?"

"What would you like me to tell you? That I still love her? I do not, Miss Arden. In fact, I have no feelings toward her whatsoever except exasperation. You clearly desire some confession or admission, but I will give you none, owe you none, and since I have answered your questions, you can satisfy one of mine: why do you care so much about what is between me and Miss Applethwaite?"

Maggie almost came out of her chair. "Because you kissed me!" She lowered her tone, embarrassed. " Why did you kiss me?"

Mr. Darrow stared at her, and she could feel him receding, withdrawing like a beast into its cave. His face grew pale and taut, his eyes frighteningly far away. "I don't know, but it was very obviously a mistake, I—"

"Mistake?" This time, Maggie did leave her chair. She stood, tipping over the wine bottle, splashing it a little on herself as she righted it, then hurried away. Mr. Darrow remained frozen at the table. He had said it himself in the cart, hadn't he? He was in no position to make himself an attractive husband to anyone, and now he had made it perfectly plain that the kiss was meaningless. A good soldier to a lady…Well! He was right about one thing, she did resemble Beatrice, more so than ever in that particular moment. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

Then, the kiss was a mistake. Maggie marched to the proprietor's alcove and demanded she be shown to their room. The boy with the summer-yellow hair was summoned, and he led her up the stairs running along the wall near the front door. She kept her gaze decidedly away from Bridger Darrow, even as she silently begged him to notice her, get up, chase her, do something. Thunder shook the inn. A table of men in the corner erupted into raucous laughter. It simultaneously felt like everybody and nobody was staring at her, like she could be scorned and forgotten in the same heartbeat.

"It's a small room, miss," the boy was saying, taking a right at the landing and leading her down a close, damp, cold hall. "But warm enough with the fire stoked. I'll warm a brick for you, should keep the chill at bay."

"Thank you," Maggie heard herself say. She was holding her fingers pinched together, prim, as if adopting the guise of a rigid, unfeeling lady would somehow protect her from sick, roiling anguish in her guts.

He kissed me, he kissed me, we kissed.

And it was a mistake.

The room was small—tiny—just like the boy had warned. With nothing to do, Maggie went by the bed on the left to the window beside the hearth and stared out at the betraying storm. It wasn't dissipating, and though it was only lately dusk, it looked like full night had fallen, a swollen, bruised color to the world as the clouds unleashed another torrent of wet and a spearing fork of lightning. It struck close enough to make her gasp, a hollow echo vibrating through her chest. She didn't want to cry and told herself to wait until the boy brought the brick to start. With a sigh, she pulled off her sodden, stained gloves and formed them into a ball, leaving them on the sill. Her nail beds were still outlined in stray ink, which reminded her of the stupid words she had written with a stupid pen and shoved into a stupid drawer at stupid Pressmore.

If I could marry a man like Mr. Darrow, a man who understands the importance of books, the good they can do, the magic they create, then I might be content after all—to make my family proud without packing my heart away in a dark and dusty room, that is my dearest wish.

A voice came through the door behind her.

"Warm brick for you, miss!"

The boy sounded strangled or like he was making fun of her. Maggie brushed it off and opened the door, finding a grown man on the other side, his eyes cruel as the clouds hanging low over the village. His teeth flashed, discolored, and she had just enough time to recognize Pimm Darrow before he shoved his way inside. There was no brick, just a knife sharp enough to glint with a kiss from the firelight.

"Not who you were expecting?" He laughed, brandishing the knife. "Scream and I scar that pretty face."

The drums in Maggie's head became a frantic, icy pounding. She clenched her teeth as Pimm spun her around and used a brutish grip to force her hands behind her back. "What do you want?" she asked, feeling the blunt side of the knife press between her shoulder blades.

"A witness, my good lady." Pimm Darrow chuckled, breath rank, and maneuvered her out into the dark hall. "I'm getting married tonight, and you're our guest of honor."