Chapter 2

2

The instruments of darkness tell us truths.

Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 3

June

Bridger's childhood home, Fletcher Estate, sat on a low hill overlooking the village of Tetherly, just west of Southam. The spring carpet of marsh marigold and mayflowers had given way to even brighter larkspur and early hydrangea. Fletcher Estate itself had always reminded Bridger of a Christmas pudding—brown, low, and bulging, with a single painted tower on top like a decorative sugared fruit. He wanted to love it, to feel the fondness everyone ought to feel for the rooms and halls of their youth, but the love never quite manifested.

And sitting then in his father's ground-floor study, he felt not only loveless, but choked.

Bridger's father sat hunched at his desk. He looked just like a feverish baby, his reddened face and bald head barely visible above a cocoon of blankets. Mr. Darrow was always cold now, summer or winter. His nurse was away in the village acquiring more tonics. Some of those empty bottles sat in a row in front of Mr. Darrow. The names on them were gibberish to Bridger, who was not often at Fletcher Estate and was ignorant of the ins and outs of his father's decline.

No, this unfortunate position was meant to be Pimm's.

"She shouldn't bring all that lavender into the front hall," barked Mr. Darrow. "It makes me sneeze. Damned fool woman." He turned with some trouble in his chair and glowered at the closed door. "Mrs. Darrow! That's enough of the lavender!"

Bridger stood, tugging the bottom of his waistcoat as he went to the window. His father was shouting at ghosts again. Mrs. Darrow, Bridger's mother, had been gone for many years. He had never in his entire life heard his father refer to her as anything but Mrs. Darrow. A charitable reading was that the couple were not loving or close; a less charitable one was that Mr. Darrow had put his wife into an early grave, straining her gentle heart with criticism, contempt, and neglect. It was hard to tell when exactly his father had begun to decline, for he had always been a mean, reclusive person, but it had certainly accelerated over the last year. The physicians had called it a kind of mania brought on by advancing age.

"I will tell the housekeeper no more of those flowers," said Bridger. It was another new housekeeper; none of them ever stayed long, for dealing with Mr. Darrow was overwhelming. Bridger never knew what to do when he witnessed one of his father's episodes. They were frequent enough to be chained together, and it seemed his father was living in another world none of them could see. Time was fluid for Mr. Darrow, and he jumped between historical points with no warning. Bridger had seen men in the war take leave of their senses for different reasons, but this was something else.

It frustrated and terrified Bridger in equal measure. He had fought insurmountable battles, but in this case, he couldn't identify the enemy or the problem that needed fixing. His father was sliding away, and he couldn't make it stop. Relations between Bridger and his father had been strained, to say the very least, since Captain Bridger Darrow had sold his commission and left the light dragoons before making major. After selling out his commission to the next in line, he took the money and rented a modest place in London, insisting that no one call him Captain ever after. He wanted that all behind him for good.

A fussy little muscle tightened in his jaw.

"Flowers," Mr. Darrow muttered, and turned back toward the bottles on his desk. He began to rearrange them.

There was a short knock on the study door, and then a tall, older man with a smooth bald head and an eye-catching orange cravat stepped inside. Bridger breathed out a sigh of relief. His father's solicitor, Harris, was who he had been waiting to see. Well, they had both been waiting, but he couldn't say whether his father remembered Harris was coming or not.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Harris greeted, breezing over to where his father sat huddled like a sickly child. "How are you today, Mr. Darrow?"

Harris was, from Bridger's observation, his father's sole friend. Friend was perhaps generous. Mr. Darrow had never met a person he couldn't dress down, insult, and alienate. Harris just had the intestinal fortitude for it, and, of course, being a solicitor, he was paid to endure.

"Eh," Mr. Darrow grunted, shrugging.

"His nurse is in the village," said Bridger. "But he should be returning shortly. I'll stay to dinner, my brother will be joining us, and then I'm afraid I must be on to Pressmore in the morning. I trust that's enough time for us to discuss the current situation."

Harris rested his hand on the back of Mr. Darrow's chair and pivoted, frowning. "Your brother left in a hurry this morning. He claimed to have urgent business exactly there, at Pressmore."

A crust of frost hardened around Bridger's heart. "Did he, indeed?"

"A wedding, he said, and a negotiation with a friend, Lane Richmond."

"I see." Bridger tried not to sneer. "And did my brother at least have the courtesy to provide his ledgers for us to look over?"

"He did not."

That block of ice in his chest melted, replaced by an inferno. Bridger had come from London to their home for the express purpose of having a meeting between him, his brother, and their father's solicitor. Bridger sank back down into the chair near the window. "And how bad is it? Don't spare my feelings."

Harris turned a bleak, sad-eyed expression toward the back of his father's head. He went to the desk and, reaching beyond the mess of empty medicine bottles, pulled a worn, brown leather book from the heaped shelf. Cracking open the ledger, he placed it on the desk, spinning it toward Bridger.

Mr. Darrow grumbled and retreated into the swaddle of blankets. "No reading, not today, your books are too fanciful, son. Full of nonsense."

Harris cleared his throat softly. "To start, I would suggest dismissing half of the staff. The priority is keeping your father in good health for as long as possible, but I must be plain, Bridger, and admit that I fear what will happen when the estate's management falls to your brother. He has already taken certain liberties with your father's accounts, and I understand there are several debtors eager to collect."

"Christ," Bridger swore, closing his eyes. It was worse than he thought. He knew Pimm was out of control, but he thought he could at least handle staying at Fletcher, looking after their father, and keeping out of trouble. A child could manage it, but apparently not the Darrow heir, Paul, called Pimm since childhood. The figures washed over Bridger like a black tide, the pitiful income from the estate tenants nowhere near enough to patch the hemorrhage caused by Pimm's wild spending.

I should have saved more of my own money. I should have returned sooner.

It would only get worse when their father was gone.

That black tide of ink changed to one of regret.

"This is my fault," Bridger murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose, his other hand curling into a tight fist. Just a week earlier, at an overcrowded poetry salon in the West End, a friend had been kind enough to inform him of a rumor flying about town. His brother, Pimm, had gotten a young unmarried woman from Bath with child. When he had been in Bath—and for what reason, only God knew, but he had gone—he acted like an animal, and the woman's family had been furious. Threats-of-bodily-harm furious. But it was patched up now, his friend told him; some kind benefactor had interceded, paid the family a generous sum, and allowed Pimm to live and philander another day.

There had been relief, of course, but part of him wished Pimm had received the full brunt of the consequences, been forced to marry and settle down. He never did, and if Bridger swooped in now to save the estate, he never would. Bridger's gaze traveled to his father, who was whispering to himself.

"Steps from disaster, then," Bridger said, shaking his head.

"That's about the long and short of it, yes," Harris replied, not without a sympathetic tone. Harris had been around for so long he was practically an uncle. Bridger trusted him, but what was one solicitor's diligence pitted against a man hell-bent on self-destruction? Pimm was going to drag them all down if Bridger didn't put a stop to it.

"There isn't any mysterious fortune I should know about, is there?" Harris laughed.

"Certainly not."

"A wealthy young lady in your very near future?"

"No, nothing like that, either." Indeed, that delicate ship was blown clear across the ocean after his last bungling attempt at courtship. He would be lucky if the Applethwaite girl even acknowledged him the next time they were in proximity. Maybe he should not have been so quick to dismiss the young woman who approached him at the poetry salon. What was her name? Martha? Mary? Bridger had to admire her courage, for he, too, was a person who sometimes threw caution and propriety to the wind to pursue his desires. He also had to admire her beauty; he had never before seen a woman with such raw intelligence sparkling in her eyes. Ah well, such thoughts were a distraction; that audacious young woman was certainly not wealthy enough to tempt him into a hasty marriage. For if she had a fortune, she would have used it to publish her terrible novel.

It was best to stay the course and move forward with his current plan. Bridger managed a dry chuckle. "I suppose, like a real fool, I'm betting it all on a book."

Fanciful nonsense, his father would call it.

Harris cocked a brow. "Oh? Then the business in London is going well?"

"It will be," Bridger assured him. "I've just acquired a promising manuscript, something very forthright, modern, and I'm convinced it will be popular. The writer is new, which is a risk, but a young talent well cultivated is always worth pursuing. It isn't a mysterious fortune falling out of the sky, but I won't let my family's future slip away without a fight."

He glanced at his father, who was unmoving and silent. Bridger felt the ghost of his mother lingering about them, her sweetness haunting the halls of Fletcher like a whisper of fading ladies' perfume. She had been so good to them, gentle and indulgent, which exacerbated his father's wrath—boys were carved into men with strict standards and beatings, or so Mr. Darrow believed.

Harris took a few steps toward him and clapped Bridger on the shoulder. "That is encouraging to hear, very encouraging. I should tell you, before your father became ill, he made certain sentimental statements. Sentimental for him, anyway. He had regrets about the way things were with you boys, and I know for certain he wished he had taken a firmer hand."

Bridger stared at his father. A firmer hand? What other kind did Mr. Darrow have? He had never been permissive nor understanding. He had never expressed pride in either of his sons, not when Bridger went to fight in France, not when he returned, alive but rattled to his core, not when he took over his mentor's publishing business. And still, Bridger was here, and he would save them all while his brother swaggered off to beg for money he didn't deserve to cover debts that were entirely unnecessary.

That reminded him: Lane Richmond. His brother wasn't away trying to swindle money from just anyone, but from the kindest man in England. Lane was, and Bridger thought this with all due fondness for his best friend, a hopelessly soft man. Newborn puppies had harder edges.

"I agree, Harris, that we should keep a smaller staff," said Bridger, tugging on the bottom of his waistcoat once more, threatening to unravel the threads there, a spike of panic rising in his chest. He had to reach Pressmore before Pimm did more damage to the family's reputation. And Lane! Sweet, na?ve Lane…he had to be protected, always, but specifically now as he stepped into married life. "I trust you will make the appropriate changes but do keep me apprised. If all goes well, my brother will return here within a fortnight and stay where he is told to stay while I get our affairs in order."

Harris looked down at the floor and sighed as if Bridger had just recalled a meandering but rather pleasant dream.

"And what about you, Harris?" asked Bridger. "When was the last time you were compensated?"

The solicitor shrugged his narrow shoulders, looking at Mr. Darrow and smiling as if to share a private joke. "I'm a man of my word. I promised your father I would look after things when his health started to decline, and I intend to do just that. I won't abandon him now."

Then perhaps you are a better man than I.

Harris drew in a long breath. "It will get worse before it gets better."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Bridger replied, going to the door. Again, that same sad smile from Harris, not patronizing but almost.

"It's a pity you have to face this all alone," said Harris. "The steady companionship of a wife would make it all easier to endure. My own Mrs. Harris is such a comfort to me when life takes a plunge."

Bridger paused at the door, impatient and slightly bothered. "My family stands at the brink, Harris, and you want me to worry about love ?"

"Forgive me—being here, being with your father, it sends me into a maudlin state, yet it can't be helped." Harris shrugged and patted Mr. Darrow on the shoulder. Bridger's father jumped, startled, and looked at Harris as if he hadn't noticed him before. "Seeing his condition, it makes me think of all the regrets, large and small, that can haunt a man if he isn't mindful of time passing him by."

"I didn't take you for a poet, Harris," said Bridger. The two men by the desk looked suddenly small, distant, and his chest ached with vague longing. He didn't understand it. He hated being around his father but leaving him was still difficult. It was fear, not premonition, he told himself, that insisted this would be the last time he saw the man alive. "I wish such notions were worth a farthing, and maybe they should be. If so, we might sell them, and put my anxieties to rest. As it stands, action is required. Do what you can for my father and leave Pimm to me."

Harris didn't stop him or argue, just bid him good day and gazed out the window.

In a dark mood, Bridger fended off the housekeeper's pleas to stay; Fletcher Estate felt like it was collapsing in on him, threatening to trap him forever if he didn't saddle up and leave. His departed mother's sad eyes watched him from every vacant corner. If he lingered, he would say something he didn't mean to someone who was only trying to be hospitable. In the war, Bridger had learned to master his outbursts; the Darrow men were cursed with short tempers, something his father considered a strength but Bridger knew in his heart to be a weakness. He had arrived from London tired, and he was tired as he started down the road once more. It didn't matter; his best and only friend in the world was getting married, and Pimm was the exact sort of rascal that could single-handedly ruin an otherwise joyous event.

Bridger slammed his hat down on his head, lowered his chin, and drove his horse hard. Pebbles flew. The wind whistled and tore. The trees along the lane became a verdant blur. It didn't escape his notice that it all felt a little too much like trying to escape—maybe Harris was right. Maybe he did need more than one friend, more than just his business; maybe he should have someone to love lest he end up like his father, alone and avoided, shut up in a house that slowly went dark, room by empty room.