Chapter 18

18

It is held

That valor is the chiefest virtue, and

Most dignifies the haver.

Coriolanus, Act 2, Scene 2

The storm had made a swollen mire of the road outside the church. The mud sucked at Bridger's boots with such intensity he felt sure he would be dragged between two cobbles and down to hell. He shoved the comparisons to France aside, for he couldn't risk the intrusion; his brother was out of control, tying women up, now stealing them in the night, and he no longer knew to what lengths the bastard would go. Drinking, dicing, and whoring were not cheap, and a desperate man backed into a corner was always the most unpredictable.

Still. Bridger had no proof Pimm had taken Margaret to the church. The tracks he had found outside the inn stable had disappeared long ago, and the muck outside the church doors was so frenzied, trod, and re-trod that there was no point in trying to make sense of it. He came equipped only with this gut instinct, and his foreknowledge of Pimm's ways; the Darrows were on the precipice of total destitution, and Pimm, without employment, skill, or sense, had perilously few options available to him. A dowry, ill-gotten or otherwise, was an obvious choice. He didn't know Ann's family well enough to discern whether this was likely to be coerced or voluntary; he just knew what his heart told him.

Margaret is within. I need to get to her.

The doors were shut against the rain. The bell tower loomed, felt but not seen until another shock of lightning stamped its impression against the low clouds. With a shudder and a groan, the heavy double doors gave way, pushed inward, Bridger putting his full weight into the effort, his boots sliding and slipping as he roared through it. He had to get inside. Whatever strength he possessed would have to be enough. At last, he felt the hinges give and shriek, the timbers shivering against his palms as a crack of light appeared up the middle like a glowing seam. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes and down his chin.

Bridger stumbled inside, looking up in time to see six stunned faces staring back.

The ancient vicar, draped in black, his white collar the brightest thing in the room, was the first to react. Even propped up in the chancel, it was difficult to make out his short stature behind the others. He reached for a pair of thick, immense spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. "S-sir! Heavens, what an abrupt entrance! Have you come seeking shelter from the storm? Wait there, please, good fellow, in the back, for we are occupied with God's business and joining these two as man and wife."

The two in question were his brother, huge and hunched and mean-faced, and a young lady he recognized as Ruby, Ann's cousin. Beside Pimm, she looked like a fawn trembling in the shadow of a bear. Bridger took one look at Margaret's pleading, terrified eyes and chose his words delicately. Something, beyond the obvious, was amiss. Her hands were frozen at her sides, and she gave him the smallest shake of her head. The elopement had all the cheer and ease of a hostage taking. A boy with curly red hair stood off to the side, not far from Maggie, holding an immense Bible.

"Come now," Bridger called, keeping his tone even. He placed his walking cane on the floor, held up his open palms, unthreatening, and walked to the edge of the nave. The pews were empty. A few scuffed candelabras flickered with golden light, but only near the ceremony, the rest of the church draped in shadow. "You wouldn't marry without inviting your brother."

"Absolutely I would," Pimm growled, swiveling to face him. He held Ruby's hand, crushing it between his own. She wore an agonized scowl as her eyes flicked between them.

"Why is he here? How did he find us?" she asked, on the verge of tears.

Foster from the estate was there, clutching a basket of duck eggs even while standing as a witness. Margaret, on the other side, near Ruby, still hadn't moved. Bridger took another big step down the timeworn carpet, then noticed Margaret shift her hand in front of her waist. Her two fingers pointed at the floor, her thumb tucked along them, the rest curled inward as if gripping a pistol.

"Be quiet," Pimm muttered at his bride.

"But I've—we—" Ruby stammered and ripped her hand out of Pimm's grasp. She stuck both fists in her eyes, digging with her knuckles. "I want to be married! This is my moment! Mine!"

"Madam," the vicar told her softly. "Peace, please!"

"What would Father think of this, I wonder?" Bridger continued, unwilling to risk another step. If Pimm had brought a pistol, he didn't want to give him a reason to use it.

"Make him leave!" Ruby cried.

The vicar was making more noises of confusion and alarm. Pimm reached for his head, tearing at his hair before grunting and opening his jacket, withdrawing the weapon, and extending his arm, pointing it at Bridger. It took the old vicar a moment to realize what was happening, then he shrieked and drew the redheaded boy closer.

"This is a house of God!" he wheezed, taking the Bible from the boy, and holding it in front of them like a shield.

"Calm down, vicar, I've no quarrel with you," Pimm sneered. He smiled over the pistol. "And this meddlesome backbiter is indeed my brother, though I scarcely recognize him as kin. Which is why he shall leave. I have no need for him here. Get on with it, vicar. Make this girl my bride."

The vicar didn't seem inclined to do so. Margaret gently took hold of Ruby by the waist, urging her to the side. Pimm didn't notice or didn't care; he only had eyes for Bridger, who needed to draw his brother away from everyone else, for a drunk man waving a pistol was guaranteed calamity.

"Has he claimed my father approves of the marriage?" Bridger asked, hand still raised.

Before the vicar could answer, Pimm charged a few steps forward. Red flames scorched up his face until he was drenched with sweat. His finger jerked toward the trigger. "So keen to invoke Father's name! Let me do it for you, whelp. You've done nothing but bother me about his condition, whine about money, and fuss over the estate. Well! Here I am, the eldest son, doing my duty."

Ruby murmured something incoherent. She had allowed Margaret to lead her away, toward the alcove of the north transept.

"Paul—" the girl began, but Pimm silenced her by wagging the pistol around wildly. The girls froze, then slid to their knees.

"Be quiet, I said!" His voice was thunderous rage. "And you!" The pistol was then aimed at Bridger once more and the hammer cocked. Subtly, carefully, Bridger inched down the aisle. He had to disarm Pimm before he killed someone. His brother could get off one shot before the business of loading another would leave him vulnerable. "Stay where you are, and by God, stand still so I might get a clear shot."

"You won't do it," Bridger warned him. "Look at where we are, man. Have some dignity."

"To hell with dignity." Pimm raised his other hand to the pistol, steadying it. Out of the corner of his eye, Bridger watched Margaret's head snap up. She sprang to her feet, and Bridger had enough sense to dive to the right as the lady threw herself at Pimm. A shot. Two screams. It felt as if the rain were suddenly driving harder, every individual drop as loud as the powder exploding from the pan. Heat sizzled across his skin, and as he landed, Bridger clapped a hand over his left arm, blood rising to meet his fingers and seep between them.

"Bridger!" Margaret's anguished cry came before the pain. On his knees, clutching his shoulder, the lady pelted down the aisle toward him.

"No, back," he told her through his teeth. "He only grazed me, but you mustn't endanger yourself."

Her hands searched along his arm, found the blood, and she gasped. She reached down and tore a strip of white fabric from her petticoat and wound it around his arm, pulling tight.

"I'm all right," he promised her, though her touch, her care, was more relief than the notion of surviving the shot. They stood together, though Pimm had crashed to his knees. The pistol hung limply in his hand, and he made no effort to reach for another shot. The vicar and boy had fled the chancel completely. Foster and Ruby hid behind the pews, tucked into the shadows. Ruby wept frantically.

Margaret stayed beside him, holding tight to the bandage around his arm. And while he drew in a sharp, agonized breath through his teeth, he studied his brother. It was like they were boys again, elbows in ribs, bloody noses leaking onto each other, knees scraped, and trousers torn, and all to please their father. "Is that what you want? To kill me? I suppose it would have pleased you not to miss. With Father and me gone, you would be free."

The red drained from Pimm's face, replaced with ghostly white. His eye twitched, then both of them narrowed, and the pistol shook in his grasp. At last, he let go of it. "Free? I will never be free. But you? You were free because of me. I protected you from the worst of Father's wrath. When he went to hunt you down in the library, I would make a mess, and then the beating would be mine. It made me what I am, taking the licks meant for you, so pardon me, brother, if now I feel entitled to a bit of drink and a bit of diversion to give merry company to the ghosts that haunt me."

Bridger straightened up. "Is that true?"

"Yes," he spat. "I've the scars to prove it."

"There are other ways," Bridger told him, still cautious.

"Your Mr. Richmond already dug me out of the depths once," said Pimm, shaking his head, trembling with dark laughter. "That girl I got with child in Bath? He was the one that put up the money for her family. So, I came here asking for more, but he refused me." Sighing, he turned his head to regard Ruby. "I found another way."

Bridger swallowed around a thorn. "Don't do this to her. We're broken boys made by a broken man. We've both made mistakes, but don't become him, brother, for there is no more approval or affection to win—our father's mind has fled, only his body remains. When I left our home last, I vowed to make things better." Little by little, Pimm hung his head. All the rage had fled him, leaving an empty vessel behind. "If you took those beatings for me, let it be for something. Let me carry the burden now."

The storm collided hard against the church. Rain splattered in through the open church doors. The flames on the candles danced and soared, then quieted as the wind died down.

"I give up, Bridger, you've won," his brother whispered. "Take me home to Father."