Chapter 4

4

What fates impose, that men must needs abide;

It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

Henry VI, Part 3, Act 4, Scene 3

Maggie watched her life's work fly out the window in mute horror.

"Don't just stand there!" Violet was shouting, climbing over the desk in front of the window with her skirts held in one fist. "Help me catch the blighters!"

"Get down from there at once, Violet." Aunt Eliza stood apart from the girls, rigid as a statue. She stammered her next words, perhaps betraying her indifferent nature, perhaps hinting that she did feel guilty for what was transpiring. "If you tumble out of that window, your mother will never forgive me! Violet! I demand you get down from there; someone could see you!"

"Oh, but it is hopeless!" Winny hopped up and down near the table, then reached over and yanked Violet's hem. "We should hurry to the garden, I think—it looks like most of the pages have fallen there."

"Got one!" cried Violet, shutting the window, and victoriously crawling back inside, holding up exactly one of the hundreds of escapees.

Winny made a soft, sad sound, tucking her knuckles under her chin. With her bonnet removed, her tumble of dark ginger curls sat heavily around her neck. "It's…Well, it's a start."

Violet glanced between Eliza and Maggie, then cried, "To the gardens!"

Her sisters erupted into playful giggles, chasing each other out the grand, tall door and into the corridor. Aunt Eliza swiveled toward them, lifting a graceful hand, but then decided against following. She had not given up on molding Maggie into an elegant lady, but apparently Violet and Winny were a problem for another day. Maggie stared after her sisters. It wouldn't do to hurl accusations at her aunt, even if she wanted terribly to do just that.

The good mood granted to her by getting a little jab in at Mr. Darrow had lasted until she reached their guest quarters, where she discovered her sisters at the far window, watching and whispering as the carriages arrived and off-loaded their passengers, and her aunt Eliza going to the opposite window. It had felt like time slowed down as Aunt Eliza reached across the unpacked, unsupervised copy of her manuscript, the many pages stacked neatly on the desk, beautiful and undisturbed, innocent as the gangly fledgling bird before a gust of wind shoots it out of the nest. And then, with that same strange slowness to time, her aunt jerked up the casement, remarking mildly, "The room could do with some air." The room was stuffy, but that was hardly an excuse!

Maggie felt cold all over. There was another copy of The Killbride at her home, but it did not contain her most recent changes and rewrites. Not only that, she had just created a mess for the staff to address while also preparing for Lane and Ann's elaborate celebrations and masquerade.

No, she hadn't done it, Aunt Eliza had. If an apology had ever escaped her aunt's lips, Maggie had not been present to hear it.

When their eyes met, her aunt had the grace to blanch with embarrassment. "Oh, Margaret. I assure you it was an accident."

"Of course." Colder, colder, she was turning to ice. She was already on Aunt Eliza's bad side; she didn't dare accuse her of scattering the manuscript on purpose. But still. Maggie felt her skin hardening into a shell; her hands ached, remembering the cramps from copying out hundreds of pages.

"The staff here are competent, I'm sure the pages will be found in no time at all." Her aunt's voice had the tremulous pitch of someone trying to soothe themselves. Maggie heard a quiet sound out in the hall, and then things got worse. Her other aunt, and the great lady of Pressmore, Mildred Richmond, entered the chamber, leaving her lady's maid out in the corridor. Her aunts both moved with the deliberate slowness of a person picking their way across hazardous ice. Mrs. Richmond—Aunt Mildred—swanny and beautiful like Aunt Eliza, announced herself with a withering huff.

"I'm told this is the origin of our little issue," said Aunt Mildred. An intricate lace was draped over her shoulders. She had the tight, pinched face of a woman who had spent most of her life disapproving of one thing or another. She and Maggie shared the same deep-golden hair and bright blue eyes, though Aunt Mildred's were more prone to narrowing.

Maggie glanced nervously between her two aunts. Did she mean the exploding manuscript or Maggie herself?

"And to enter my house without so much as a greeting," continued Aunt Mildred, aghast. Maggie shied at that; it was rather rude. "I had heard you were somewhat changed since our last encounter, Margaret, but this is excessive."

"Oh, sister," said Eliza, going to Mildred and all but collapsing against her with relief. "It is encouraging to have your support in this matter, for try as I might, Margaret seems determined to stretch my patience to its breaking point."

Aunt Mildred observed Maggie, the window, and what was left of her book piled messily by the sill. "The staff is in an uproar, my dears. Explain yourselves!"

"A regrettable accident," Eliza answered, withdrawing and folding her hands. She had also neatly sidestepped responsibility. "A window, a breeze…Well, you see, I was just about to scold our niece for bringing her book with her. But we must try to find the best in the situation—after all, now she will not be consumed by distractions better put aside."

Maggie said nothing. How could she set aside the one thing that made her feel like herself? Evidently perturbed by her silence, Eliza's gaze settled on her, glossy with emotion. "I sometimes wonder if I should resent your father. He encouraged this in you, he prepared you for a world that does not exist."

"That's not fair," Maggie replied, starting forward.

Aunt Mildred heaved a tremendous sigh. "And yet, her mother."

"No, you're right, sister, you're too right. Some blame must go to the mother, too. You have no inkling of what it was like watching your mother put love before duty, her own heart before the happiness of our entire family. There were wealthy men who wanted her, and we watched her spurn them and wait and wait, not knowing if all of us would be on the streets due to her selfishness." She crossed toward Maggie, carefully taking her hands. "And she was not also pursuing, to her detriment, employment! Dear niece, your reputation is all you have in this world, and that reputation will determine your future. I merely wish to protect you." And here she glanced at Aunt Mildred, who seemed frozen. "We both wish to protect you, protect your happiness."

"One cannot exaggerate the joy of knowing comfort and stability," Mildred added. There was a distance in her eyes, or a sadness, that stirred pity in Maggie's heart. Mildred plucked idly at the glamorous ring on her left hand. "Mr. Richmond was not a soft man nor an affectionate one, but we had our moments of understanding. And he gave me this"—she gestured to the walls around them—"and my children, so how could one possibly complain?"

Aunt Eliza flinched. Their shared pain was evident, and even studied expressions couldn't conceal it. They had married in the expected way, and her mother hadn't, and where the most suffering had taken place was now plain.

Maggie didn't feel guilty, exactly, but ashamed, perhaps, afraid that she had already disappointed her family and her sisters. It made her lightheaded to think Violet and Winny would live to resent her like this, to speak of her in such a cold way. The family mythology had always decreed that Aunt Mildred was ecstatically in love with the wealthy and aloof Mr. Richmond. Now that she considered it, she had never seen him smile or laugh. She had, however, seen Lane attempt to make him do both of those things frequently, to no success. Maggie had been ignorant, until that moment, of the reality that diverted from the cherished narrative. And so, she fell quiet momentarily, trying to compose herself, aware that their ideas of happiness were nothing alike. "I'm afraid the pages have already flown out the window. What if everyone knows the book is mine?" she asked softly. "I was already the target of whispers. So much for that reputation."

"The staff will search diligently," said Aunt Mildred, bustling over to them. Her face softened, though only a little. Maggie felt outnumbered, trapped. "I daresay there cannot be too many of those pages with your name upon them, mm?"

Maggie nodded, hanging her head. "Just the first page."

"Then we shall find it," Mildred declared, as if it were easy, as if that page might not be halfway to Dover by now or already in someone's possession. "The rest we will explain away, and you must put it out of your mind. People must know the Margaret Arden who doesn't always have her head stuck in a book. I'm sure Ann can be relied upon to guide you; she excels at finding husbands."

Maggie turned away, crestfallen.

There is no Margaret Arden without books.

Aunt Eliza let go of her and raised her head, smoothing her palms down her skirt before striding to the open door with her sister. "The journey has left me fatigued, I fear; collect your sisters and see that they are not making a nuisance of themselves."

"Let me show you the new draperies in the library," Mildred was saying, looping her elbow with Eliza's.

"No, no, I'm simply too tired. Later, sister, the draperies will not take offense."

The sisters laughed softly with each other. As she watched them go, Maggie sank into a defeated sadness. They were probably right. She needed to consider what might befall them if Aunt Eliza withdrew her charity and left them without a roof or sustenance. And she could imagine that they must have been boiling when her mother kept them in precarious wondering over their own fates. The three sisters—Emmeline (Maggie's mother), Eliza, and Mildred—did not share a uniformly warm relationship. Eliza and Mildred remained close, but Maggie had always detected a frostiness between her mother and her aunts, particularly a rift between her mother and Mildred.

Her mother was a disappointment, clearly, just like Maggie was in danger of becoming.

Mamma had married for love, and how had that turned out? Three precocious daughters with few marriage prospects, and all of them relying on Eliza's aid. Maggie would find it easier to disregard her aunts' practical marriage approach if it wasn't paying for Mosely Cottage and putting food on their table.

The chill in Maggie's body dissipated as she hurried out into the corridor and down the grand stairs, retracing her steps to the veranda and then the garden. She wouldn't recover the pages of her book standing there wallowing in misery, and one of Winny's optimistic theories of life offered itself up as her walk became a trot—whenever her sister encountered a misfortune, she murmured (or delicately swore, in her eminently innocent way): "Lost bonnet!" Meaning, one might be walking down the lane when a strong gust carried your bonnet away. Chasing into the field after it could spare one from being run over by a carriage or bitten by a stray dog. In this way, a small setback prevented greater sadness.

Through gritted teeth, Maggie tried to greet the staff and guests with a taut smile. Yes, in fact, it was an excellent thing that her most precious possession had been scattered like so much sand! How convenient! How pleasing! She didn't know how Winny stayed cheerful all the time; it was exhausting, practically impossible.

Maggie rushed outside to find the staff of Pressmore, as Mildred promised, in an uproar, running here and there, trying to swat pages out of trees and recapture them from the tops of tents, battling the wind and chaos as if a swarm of locusts had been freed on the property. Forget the lost bonnet, her mood was black and there was no remedy for it.

She recognized Ann Graddock, Lane's fiancée, swiping pages out of a topiary with a long-handled butterfly net. Laughing, the woman scooped up an errant piece of parchment and turned to hold it up for the staff to see. There was a subdued cheer. She then noticed Maggie poised on the veranda steps like a criminal, somewhat hunched and smallish, attempting to meld with the verge.

Don't see me, don't see me, don't see me…

"I suppose this is your doing?" Ann was already navigating the celebratory tents placed just outside the south lawn of the house. "If this is your attempt at a wedding gift, I respectfully decline. I do love a chase through the hedge maze, but a more orderly treasure hunt is requested next time. And with due warning! My, but it is windy today."

Maggie sighed, cheeks a mortified red as she embraced Ann. Only someone as relaxed and happy as Ann Graddock could take this aggravation in stride. Fishing out a few crumpled, dirtied pages from the net, Ann presented them to Maggie with a wry smile.

"Oh, but there won't be a next time because your wedding will be perfect, you and Lane are utterly perfect, and you will live happily forever, despite this little…" Maggie held up the pages and shook her head. "It is my Aunt Eliza's doing, if you can believe it. Violet and Winny left my manuscript by the window and Eliza thought the room could use some air. I am so sorry, Ann, I know this is the last thing you need while preparations are underway. Whatever I can do to put this right, just say the word. I am yours to command."

Ann kissed her on both cheeks, slinging the butterfly net over one shoulder gallantly. "I tease, Maggie, I only tease, for I would much rather have your words raining down on us than the wet of a summer shower. In fact, it adds to the whimsy of the masquerade, I think. Perhaps I can give out prizes to whomever recovers the most pages! What an amusement!" Ann lowered her voice, threading her arm through Maggie's and pulling her toward the hedges east of the veranda and pavilions. A few stray pages had gotten wedged in the branches there, and Maggie, sheepish, quickly plucked them out of the greenery. "And I already have an inkling of who might win that prize. Shall I tell you?"

A mischievous gleam brightened Ann's already beguiling eyes. From within the hedge maze, she heard her sisters laughing uncontrollably as they tried to catch flying pages. The combination twisted Maggie's stomach into knots. "Why do I mistrust that look of yours?"

"So, you cannot guess? Is this a new development, then?" Ann's inky eyelashes fluttered. "How delicious! And to think, my own nuptials could encourage even more love into the world."

"I can't pretend to know what you mean," said Maggie, exasperated.

With a conspiratorial glance around, Ann urged her closer, her voice a salacious whisper. "I have overheard just now a conversation between my Lane and one Mr. Bridger Darrow. Do you know him?"

Maggie groaned.

"That…is not the reaction I was anticipating," Ann replied, laughing. "How could you respond so to a man utterly enraptured with your words?"

"My what?" Maggie almost screeched it, forgetting herself. Ladylike. Graceful. She was to be no more obtrusive or offensive than a dainty cough into a silk glove. "No, Ann, you're mistaken, you must be. That man despises my book, I've heard it from him directly. And I have already spoken with Lane, who assured me you would do your best to keep me far, far away from the awful Mr. Darrow."

Ann took a step back, frowning. "It is very droll for Lane to say such and think he can speak for me, but I have every intention of pushing you and Mr. Darrow together, not apart."

Maggie hugged the retrieved pages to her chest, heedless of the ink that might smear onto her frock. God, help me. This wasn't happening. Mr. Darrow was the villain of this wedding, not the hero. "No, Ann, you must listen to me. I have no interest in Mr. Darrow, and we have already had two unbearable interactions that are better off forgotten. Besides, Aunt Eliza says he is not worth marrying, and I dare not disappoint her again. She is single-minded—I must make a lucrative match and set a fine example for my sisters, even if I must marry Mr. Gainswell and his disgusting feet."

"Slow down, Maggie, there is no need for such agitation. Though I must say, your aunt's objections are surprising—for if Mr. Darrow is poor then I do not know of it," said Ann. She crooked a thoughtful finger next to her chin, brows furrowed with thought. "Lane has never indicated he is impoverished, and we tell each other everything. Or almost everything. Hmm. Mr. Darrow presents himself well. The family estate, Fletcher, is reported to be ample and in good condition." Ann turned away from the hedges and walked slowly back toward the veranda; she never did anything without looking like a queen in a procession while she did it. Maggie chased after her, remembering to hide the pages at her side. Ladylike, graceful, dainty cough, etc.

"Regardless, Ann, I beg you—"

"And"—Ann drew out the word theatrically, playfully—"a crucial thought occurs to me just now, as I remember that you want most ardently to set things right, mm, the ardent Miss Arden? Let me throw you together, let me try—the matter of your work will come up naturally in conversation, and I feel confident things will progress from there. That would make me very happy, my friend, exceedingly happy, and the pages scattered all across Pressmore will vex me not a bit."

Maggie began dragging her feet. She had told Ann to command her. Still, a woman had her pride. A small, annoying little voice insisted that maybe Mr. Darrow had undergone a change of heart, or perhaps a specific passage had moved him and altered his opinion of the work. No! He had been insulting and cruel to her face with his own stupid, handsome face, exposed her to the insatiable gossips of London, and made her swear a silent vow that anyone else on Earth could publish The Killbride but not him. Anyone but him.

While Ann handed off the butterfly net to a member of staff and walked inside the house, Maggie planted herself defiantly on the steps, raising her chin. "You will not change my mind about him, Ann. I am determined to hate him."

Ann swished her lips to the side. "Even if he has high praise for your prose?"

"Well…"

"Oh-ho-ho!"

Maggie scrunched her nose. "No! Yes! Yes, even if he has high praise for my book. It is all over and decided; he has made his first impression, and it was a bad one."

"Hearts and minds can change and mend," said Ann, sweet. "Come, Maggie, won't you let me try?"

Winny and Violet emerged at last from the maze. Combined, they had recovered perhaps a dozen or so lost pages. God only knew how many remained in the nooks and crannies of stately, sprawling Pressmore. It would take an age to find them all, and she really did owe Ann. Well, Aunt Eliza did, but Aunt Eliza was not making herself available for amends. And really, Maggie ought to have at least wound a few pieces of twine around the pages before cramming them into her luggage.

She felt tingly and hot from her scalp to her toes; she vastly preferred the bracing cold of before.

Reluctantly, Maggie recalled the way Mr. Darrow had looked at her at their first meeting, the intensity in his flinty eyes, the almost vulpine sharpness of his features, and the sensuous fall of his thick, dark hair. It was almost enough to make her want to listen, to make her want to try. But the chilly snap of disparagement in his voice returned to her, too, shattering the rosily conjured image.

The heroine could sprout wings and fly to America, for all I care, and it would still not interest me.

Maggie looked down at the pages of The Killbride in her hands. She loved this work, this book, every word chosen carefully, every scene meticulously devised. Often, she pictured her father reading the completed story, watching the play of excitement, joy, and interest move over his weathered face as he devoured the chapters. Bent at her desk, ignoring the cramps in her fingers and the coldness that spread through her under the shawl, fighting the dwindling candlelight, Maggie had poured her memories of her father's story into the book, first to make him proud, then in his beloved memory.

A tremor passed through her hand as she stared down at the pages. What would Papa want for her? Love, certainly, but not with a man who couldn't understand and nurture her brilliance. Even if, for some reason, Mr. Darrow had a change of heart, the words were said, the poison inflicted, and the damage already done.

"Do as you like, Ann, devise your most diabolical romantic schemes. But I tell you now—set aside loving him, I shall never even like him. He could offer to publish every book I ever dream of writing, and he would still not interest me."