Chapter 24

24

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,

But in battalions.

Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5

Bridger arrived a week after he intended to.

Riding hard up the drive, he found Pressmore cloaked in melancholy drizzle, the lush plants of the gardens flanking the path sagging as if they had endured more than their fill of rain. He wasn't at all surprised to find Lane waiting for him in the doorway. A footman raced from inside the house to meet Bridger and his horse.

"What's the matter?" he and Lane asked each other in startling unison.

"You first," said Lane, ushering him under the overhang. They huddled together watching the footman lead his horse away, Bridger wondering why he was not being brought inside the house.

"My father is dead, and Fletcher will go to my brother, despite everything, despite—well, never mind," said Bridger. "Did no messenger arrive?"

"None," Lane replied, taking him tenderly by the arm. "But the roads have been disastrous for a week. Perhaps he lamed his horse."

"Damn it all," Bridger muttered, pinching his temples. "And Miss Arden? Is she still here?"

Lane shook his head, then squeezed his arm. "She and her sisters departed days ago. But you must tell me more of your father, Bridger. I know there was little affection between you, but still, you have my most profound condolences."

Glancing toward the doors, impatient, Bridger explained it all as quickly as he could. They had received only a few visiting mourners. The vicar came, of course, and a handful of townsfolk and old tenants from Bambley. They all struggled to dredge up nice words for Mr. Darrow. Bridger had wished they wouldn't bother; he detested the idea that death somehow absolved one of all cruelty and wrongdoing. He and his brother were proof that the pain inflicted continued, and nobody was offering condolences for that.

"He was a great man," someone had said.

"A decisive fellow," added another.

It made him physically ill to think about his father lying in the space next to his mother in the Bambley graveyard, but such was tradition, and he was too worn down to fight it. Lane listened to it all patiently, still holding him outside the house proper. At last, losing his temper, Bridger shucked Lane's hand from his arm and stood back. "Why are you not inviting me inside, man? This is highly unusual; I'm soaked through from the rain, and I rode hard all morning."

Lane glanced down at the tops of his boots, then squinted out at the rain. "You see, Ruby concocted some wild stories about what went on in Cray Arches, wilder even than what we all expected. Your name and Miss Arden's were mentioned, and not charitably. I think it is all overblown, but my aunt is less forgiving."

His vision narrowed to just his friend. This was bad. Very bad. His heart ached for Margaret, who must have gotten a harrowing earful from her aunts, if what he had witnessed in that cupboard was any indication. Bridger sniffed and raised his chin. "Are you not the master of Pressmore?"

Lane balked. "Certainly, I am, but it is a courtesy I do my mother now, for she swears she will not have you at our table. I think it ridiculous, but after all that has occurred with Ann and her cousin and your brother, I defer to her nerves just this once. Our friendship is not in doubt, Bridger, it never could be, but it is perhaps best left to the clubs in town and your own residence. At least for now."

A curtain twitched aside, revealing the grim visage of Mrs. Richmond. She glowered out at him, and he returned nothing.

Lane followed his gaze, going on quickly, "Tell me Ruby is lying and I will defend you to her most ardently."

Bridger could not meet his eye, furious with himself. Furious with Ruby. "Something…occurred."

"Oh dear." Lane blew out a nervous breath. "And…and my cousin…"

"I cannot explain myself, only that I…that I love her. And I had hoped to find her here. The last few days have been trying, but I sent that messenger ahead to explain my absence."

Mrs. Richmond sat watching and waiting, tapping the window with her knuckle. Grumbling, Lane stepped out of the doorway and took Bridger by the elbow, leading him through the drizzle to the side of the house and the archway crawling with heavy-headed hydrangea. The sight of it made Bridger want to strike the house with his riding crop, for he had met Miss Arden at Pressmore here just after he initially arrived. Back when he thought her mad and preposterous. Back when he had no affection for her writing or her person.

"And what must she think of me?" Bridger thought aloud. "I did not return and abandoned her to face the consequences alone." This time he really did strike the house with his crop. An instant later, the curtain nearest to them swished, and there was Mrs. Richmond; she had followed them. Lane urged him farther down the side of the house. Mist crept up from the maze, swirling along the edge of the archway.

Lane sighed. "I am sorry, Bridger. Almost as soon as Ruby's information was shared, Margaret and her sisters were removed from the house. Even I was not permitted to bid her goodbye; it was all extremely sudden. Certain assumptions were made, and certain promises, too."

"Threats, you mean."

"Her aunt Eliza was very displeased. Blazes, they scared me . Napoleon might have beat us back had he an army of Aunt Elizas."

Another curtain opened. Mrs. Richmond's breath fogged the glass. Lane removed them to the other side of the archway, behind a pillar, the rain splattering them both.

Bridger shook his head. "If I had been here, if I could have come to her defense…" His rage simmered to self-loathing. "Perhaps it does not matter. Perhaps this was inevitable. What could I offer her? Her family would be right to urge her against me; I've no money at all."

Lane shot forward, gripping his arm again. "But you told me—"

"I know what I told you, Lane. I lied. You've already been too generous, and now to discover that you were the one to patch things up for Pimm in Bath…How could I ever ask you for anything again?"

Lane actually guffawed. "Good God, man, you saved my life! I would do anything to see you whole and happy, even more if it meant you could be part of the family through Margaret."

"I wished that above all else."

"It's only money, Bridger. I will gladly lend you whatever—"

"No, I can't accept anything more from you." Bridger leaned back against the pillar, heedless of the wet plants. "I shall write to her and explain all, and hope that I could be forgiven."

"Your father died, that's hardly your fault."

"But I could have demonstrated more restraint," said Bridger, casting a wary eye toward the windows of the house. A cold, numb feeling spread through his body. The fury that had seared through him a moment before would have been welcome, but now he felt the old, lonely feelings returning. Lane had his wealth and his beautiful wife and his sprawling estate, and Bridger had nothing but a single manuscript that might or might not prove successful.

"If I am not welcome at Pressmore, then I will trouble you no longer," he said, securing his hat and striding back toward the front of the house.

"I am sorry, old friend." Lane followed, sounding harried. "Will you receive me in London? It would be jolly to be there once the roads are better."

Jolly. Bridger tried not to sneer at the word. "Of course," he said, stiff. "I will always receive you."

The footman brought his horse again, wearing a perplexed expression at Mr. Darrow leaving so soon. He had swung up into the saddle when a blur of yellow silk streaked across the gravel toward him. Ann had come, her jacket half-buttoned and her bonnet ribbons flying. She went on tiptoes and pressed a wrapped bundle into his hands.

"I found this in her guest chamber," said Ann. She offered a sympathetic smile, one he was too chilled to accept. "My heart told me you should have it. Pray, when will we see you again?"

"Good day, Mrs. Richmond," he told her, and galloped away.

When he reached Cray Arches, he rested his horse and took a room at the Gull and Knave to torment himself. The proprietor and boy fell all over themselves to be courteous and did not hesitate to oblige him when he asked for the same quarters as last time. He drank too much wine downstairs, then retired to dry himself out by the fire in the room that should have been theirs. He unwrapped the bundle from Ann, discovering four very different pieces of parchment. One was a note from Regina to Margaret, warning her about Bridger's cruelties and deficiencies. He was already blank with sadness, but somehow her words found a way to knife beneath the leathery crust of loss and prick flesh.

He assured me that no one would ever be interested in what I had to say, that the mind of a woman was better occupied with painting tables and decorating bonnets, and that the true subtleties of literary achievement were attainable by men alone. Upon my honor, he said it, and I have the letters still to prove it.

Bridger lowered the letter to his lap and grimaced. When he could stomach it, he looked to the next item. It was quite obviously a page taken from a longer diary entry, but Ann had chosen the relevant piece.

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. There is no Margaret Arden without her writing and her books. One day, that will prove a boon, not a burden.

Lastly, Ann had included the first page of Margaret's book, the only one displaying her name, and the one he had hoped to return to her the night of the masquerade. It was torn raggedly in two.