Chapter 20

20

Do as the heavens have done: Forget your evil;

With them forgive yourself.

The Winter's Tale, Act 5, Scene 1

Bridger left before he could be tempted to stay. It felt Herculean, leaving the darling yellow-haired siren in the bed, and creeping out before dawn to collect his brother and go. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, then pulled the blankets snug to her chin and left, hoping to retreat to his own designated guest quarters before his absence was noted by the housekeeper.

He yearned to stay, but the storm had dulled to just a heavy mist, and the sooner he was on the road, the sooner he could return. Not even Pimm's sour, drooping face could dim his spirits as he hired the carriage for them, herded his brother into the back, and they began the short journey to Fletcher.

"What will happen to Ruby?" his brother asked.

It tore Bridger out of his thoughts. He had been staring out at the countryside as it eased by, his mind not in the carriage at all but still in bed with Margaret. He had just been busy chastising himself for not leaving a note apologizing for the early exit.

"I don't rightly know," Bridger replied, sighing. He rested his elbow on the door, his chin on his fist. "Mar— Miss Arden seems determined to blunt the blow where her forgery is concerned. I think she hopes the vicar will never notice the false license and Ruby will suffer only for the scandal of that misguided kiss. What were you thinking, Pimm? You put her on display for the whole of the estate to see at the masquerade. If Ann's reputation is to be mended then Ruby's will be torn to shreds."

Pimm sagged in his seat, picking at the callouses on his palms. "The Graddocks are plum wealthy, that's what I was thinking. Ruby was tolerable enough. I could have put up with her, I think."

"Until she bored you and you cast her aside for a mistress," Bridger added, knowing his brother too well.

"And?" Shaking his head, Pimm snorted and glared out the other window. "At least there would be money."

"Money enough to justify shooting your own brother?"

"You lit the wrong tinder, brother. It…" Pimm pounded lightly on the side of his head with one fist. His eyes were glazed, vacant, and his mouth was twisted to the side in pain. "My head will just throb, the world goes blank, and it's like…like the future disappears." A rare moment of lucidity seemed to take him, perhaps owing to the lack of brandy in the carriage. But there was more, Bridger thought, watching Pimm's face relax. "I was a boy once, wasn't I? I had hopes, a thought of what I would be one day, but that hope gets beaten out of you."

They were quiet for a while.

"I dragged mud into his study on my shoes once," Pimm said suddenly. "He took the heaviest book he had off his desk and threw it at my head. I couldn't see straight for days, felt like my brain would explode out of my ears."

"Did he call a physician?"

"A doctor?" Pimm roared with laughter. "He hates them."

"That's all he has for company now," said Bridger. He had not slept well, distracted by the beauty lying in his arms and concerned for her comfort, wedged himself against the wall to allow her as much room as the tiny bed allowed. Scrubbing his sandy eyes with his knuckles, he fidgeted in the seat, finding the carriage too small for two large men.

"Doctors cost money."

"Anyway, if you were dreaming of a lavish settlement, I doubt you would get a shilling from the Graddocks," Bridger replied, stifling a yawn. His arm ached where the bullet had grazed him, though Margaret's fastidious work had held through the night, and the bandage hadn't budged. It would need to be cleaned and redressed when they reached Fletcher. "The colonel might not preside over his daughters directly, but mark my words, he would have discovered the fraudulent nature of the license and had you taken before the constable. His reputation is spotless, his keenness of mind well-known and well feared. Although, given this caper, perhaps not well enough."

"Then I suppose you want my thanks," Pimm muttered.

"An apology will suffice."

"You might be waiting for that a long while."

"There is plenty of road yet to travel, brother."

More silence, and it was bitter.

Bridger contented himself with examining the damage left behind by the storm. The carriage often slowed to navigate the pits and ruts. Many trees were downed along the road, as if a giant had clumsily walked the route. His brother fidgeted, probably desperate for drink.

"What's your scheme, then?" his brother asked, voice dripping with skepticism. "Does the Arden girl have a sizable dowry? You can't be after her for her looks."

Bridger shot him a warning glare but did not take the obvious bait.

"Hide the love bites on your neck better, brother, or I won't be the last to ask."

"What is between Miss Arden and me is none of your business, other than the thanks you owe her. Without her interference, you might have turned murderer."

"But she is wealthy," Pimm prodded, sniffing with laughter.

It was Bridger's turn to shift and fidget. He had no idea what her dowry might be and knew only that her circumstances were less than ideal. It had seemed romantic and daring when he called them unmarriable, but the reality was significantly less charming. "As soon as I return to London, there is work to be done on a promising novel. The potential income—"

"Potential?" Pimm spat. His face turned red. Bridger braced for the next round of insults and maybe a thrown fist. Instead, his brother sank further down on the bench and muttered something like "My little brother the savior."

Bridger ignored him. And he continued ignoring him all the way to Fletcher. They arrived at midday. The grounds were untouched by the storm, and the squat, cake-like profile of the house made his stomach twist into a nest of vipers as they dipped down the hill toward the entrance. A light rain made the grass sparkle, but Bridger leapt down into a deep morass of mud. The staff did their best not to look surprised at Pimm's presence or his bloodshot, bruised state. They were much kinder to Bridger, who instructed them to prepare Paul's rooms for his permanent residence. Further instructions were given to keep him away from the wine and brandy.

Halfway down the corridor to his father's study, he encountered Harris. The solicitor broke into a smile at seeing Bridger, greeted him, then pulled him close to speak in confidence. He was wearing his orange cravat again, and the wan light penetrating the hall glittered off the top of his bald head.

"It is good to see you again, lad, but if you were hoping to see your father today, I fear he is not at his best. Eating seems to pain him and sometimes he will not swallow his supper at all."

Bridger nodded in the face of his concerns but pushed past him. "Is the doctor within?"

"No, should I send for him?"

"You probably should," said Bridger, continuing to the study doors. "This won't take long."

There was a damp, sweaty smell to the study. The curtains were closed and scant candles burned, and his father sat swaddled and hunched at his desk, lurking like a hermit in a cave. The same old blade of fear lanced through Bridger as he walked toward his father. His imposing walnut desk was beyond him, heaped with bottles and books. Bridger couldn't help but stare at the heaviest among them and wonder if it was the tome that had been hurled at young Pimm's head. His father seemed shrunken, hollow-faced with hunger. There was a pronounced whistling when he breathed.

Bridger strode to the window and threw open the curtains, a liberty he would never have taken before. At the desk, his father stirred and startled, then spun toward him.

Bridger tucked his hands behind his back, thumbs locked. Out in the garden, an enormous flock of finches moved from tree to tree, surging upward like a brown dragon soaring across the grounds.

"No more flowers," said his father with difficulty. "Where's Paul?"

"Trying to sleep, I'd imagine," Bridger replied, almost conversational. "Trying to forget all the beatings you gave him that turned his brains to porridge."

"Eh? What did you say?"

Bridger drew in a deep breath. "I said you're a fucking demon. Pimm is going to look after you now, though I daresay you don't deserve it. There was a time I'd have said you deserve each other, but I think I pity him." He pivoted to glance at his father over his right shoulder.

"I should…You dare…" Mr. Darrow tried to reach for a bottle to throw. It took him a few attempts, but he finally managed it, then hurled an empty vial at his son. Bridger dodged it easily; a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"You dared, didn't you? You dared too much. All the time. We might have avoided this familial slide into infamy and destitution if you had just let me love Regina. She's wealthy now, and we would have been happy with our bad manners and our books. But she despises me, and the woman I now love might not have two pounds to her name!" Bridger laughed, gleeful, exhilarated. Leaning against the sill, he regarded his father with cold scrutiny. "I'm going to marry Margaret Arden, a woman you would hate. She has too many opinions, voices them, and does so without apology. She's everything I've ever wanted and that you convinced me was rot. The real rot was here in this house all along."

He toed the bottle out of the way and left, his father calling after him about the damn flowers his mother had left in the front hall. His father's physician was riding up the road toward the house. Bridger decided to stay long enough to eat, sleep, and have his bandage changed. In the morning, he would return to Pressmore and Margaret. The house was suffocating him. He went out to the back garden and cut a few flowers, watching the finches make shapes as they swooped and dove.

With the flowers in hand, he wondered if he would ever bring Margaret here. He fancied not. He fancied they would make a life of their own somewhere better, where little boys didn't have to hide in libraries, where fathers embraced their sons.