Chapter 5

5

O, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away.

The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 1, Scene 3

The next morning, Bridger was impressed to discover that his brother had dried himself out long enough to attend the wedding of Lane Richmond and Ann Graddock. Until then, he had eluded Bridger so completely that he had to consider that Pimm had given up and fled Pressmore. Stymied, Bridger had, as Lane suggested, found his way to the Sapphire Library, but not to indulge in the very good brandy. Instead, he gathered up the dozen or so pages of loose manuscript that he had hunted down around the estate and tried to collate them into a sensible order. Then, he read. In fact, he read the pages repeatedly, growing angrier with each pass. When the pages had first shot out of the window above them, Lane had watched him devour the words with a delighted grin.

"It's obvious, man, isn't it?" he had asked. "Those belong to my cousin Margaret."

Yes, it was obvious. Obvious and bothersome.

Bridger was certain the book from Margaret Arden that had landed on his desk in London was little more than a literary whimper. Her talent was present but unrefined. Within five pages, he lost interest and set it aside. But now…Hmm. It rankled him. Perhaps what Miss Arden had said at that too-hot salon was true—once the drawing room drama concluded, the book actually went somewhere. He refused to revise his opinion entirely, but was willing, reluctantly, to admit there was promise here, were the right editor to work with the young lady.

If he could get control of his brother, there was a chance he could be that guide for her. Lane described her as an intelligent and reasonable woman, and with time, they could overcome their shaky start. It was a nice enough thought, but after failing to locate his brother and realizing he might have been too hasty about Miss Arden's work, he tossed through a sleepless night. Now, in the glare of the morning sun, he stood outside the chapel, an amiable walk's distance away from Pressmore, and watched Lane and Ann saunter up the path, man and wife, sealed together by God before family and friends, and on their way to host a magnificent breakfast. He would follow, eventually, but not before seeking out Pimm.

The crowd dazzled in fashionable pastels, mingling as prettily as the flower petals thrown by the fistful to celebrate the new union. Before the ceremony, there was animated discussion about the special license obtained for the couple, signed by the archbishop of Canterbury himself (a favor, allegedly, to Ann's father, the colonel), so that the couple could marry whenever and wherever they pleased, but in the end it was not necessary, for Mrs. Richmond objected to the idea of the couple being married in the Pressmore gardens, preferring the traditional church setting. Ann, it was said, relented with incredible grace, putting Mrs. Richmond's tastes above hers, all in the name of familial harmony. Bridger tried all throughout the morning to be happy for his friend—he was happy for his friend—but he was equally furious with his brother. Pimm, disheveled but miraculously present, loomed like a black band of storm clouds at the back of the church. The moment he could leave, he did, his attendance perfunctory, consistent with Pimm's pattern of taking all the wrong things in life seriously. And as the cramped stone building emptied out, Bridger fought through the sea of coats and bonnets to catch Pimm before he disappeared again. He lost track of him briefly as he was forced to pause and step aside, Lane and Ann sweeping out the doors under that shower of petals. The couple led the procession back toward the estate, and Bridger popped on his hat and ducked out of the crowd, standing in the cool shade of a bending willow, searching for Pimm.

Shockingly, he discovered Pimm escorting a familiar woman. She was as coldly pale and pretty as a snowdrop, the sort of town beauty that would have her pick of eligible bachelors even without her impressive family fortune. Miss Regina Applethwaite. It was incredible. Two out of the four horsemen of his personal apocalypse were now ambling arm in arm up the charming cobblestone path. After the horrors he had witnessed in France, this was comparatively laughable, but his palms began to sweat anyway. He felt genuine remorse for the way things had ended with Regina. Her family was not so resoundingly wealthy then, and Bridger's father had expressed disappointment that the lady was fair but otherwise lacking—she read too much and had other rough flaws that money might have smoothed over. And didn't all boys wish to please their fathers, to in many ways emulate them? Bridger had done just that, the tone of his letters growing colder and more aloof until she was the one to abandon the courtship. Her final missive had been scathing, her words haunting him long after the initial jolt of heartbreak faded.

His deceased mentor, John, had been the one to introduce them, for he was a close friend of the Applethwaite family. Identifying a shared love of literature between Bridger and Regina, the introduction had been made, and Bridger had found himself quite enraptured. Things might have turned out differently if his father hadn't interfered soon after, purchasing Bridger's commission and pressuring him to snub Regina. Once he left for France, their romance unraveled after a smattering of letters.

If Regina's family had come into their trade fortune sooner, the elder Mr. Darrow might have sung a vastly different tune. Alas.

Bridger's heart ached at the sight of her. I was cruel and ungenerous; she has every reason to despise me. Regina nearly outshone the bride in her subdued blue silk trimmed in silver tassels. Like the willow sheltering him, she had a natural, sylphlike grace. With her tiny, perfect mouth, she grinned up at his oaf of a brother. Seeing that was a different kind of pain. Bridger took long strides to catch them, his mind going blank as he tried to formulate a smooth way to separate them.

Just a few steps behind them, his mind finally supplied something, though it was completely unhelpful: With Lane refusing him, he's going to seduce Regina for her fortune.

No, no. He wouldn't, would he? Bridger groaned internally. Yes, he absolutely would. In fact, it would rank fairly low on the list of Horrible Schemes Concocted by Pimm Darrow. An increasingly horrible thought followed, that Regina might actually be in love with his brother. Lane had mentioned Pimm had another plan to scrounge up some money. Was Regina his plan?

His stomach twisted at the memory of her last cold letter. He had a sharp memory, which sometimes served him and sometimes didn't. In this instance, he longed to forget.

It is clear that you do not understand me at all, Mr. Darrow, not my values, and certainly not my passions. If you write to me again, it will go unanswered.

"I'm certain the Richmonds will have it in the library. Their selection is known throughout the county," Regina was saying to his brother. If by "it" she meant a book, she was shooting hopelessly off target. Pimm was more likely to use a book for kindling rather than for any entertainment or edification.

Bridger coughed lightly into his fist and came up along Regina's vacant left side.

"Good morning, Miss Applethwaite," he said, taut. "Paul." Tighter.

"Mr. Darrow," Regina replied, her cupid's bow mouth pinched as she raked her eyes up and down his face. Every pass of her eyes scratched. Once, he had fallen into those sparkling periwinkle pools with great abandon, but now they were aloof, wintry. "Good morning. When did you arrive?"

"Yesterday," said Bridger. "I came directly from Fletcher with some haste, our father is poorly and requires constant attention."

"I'm sorry to hear it." Regina gave another not-quite smile, indicating she wasn't all that sorry.

"Your own family is well?" he asked, anxious. He needed to get Pimm alone.

"Yes, thank you. My mother is here, but she walks with Mrs. Richmond." Regina gracefully gestured behind them, where, indeed, the indicated women were in merry conversation. She noted Bridger's gaze fixing on his brother. An intelligent woman, and observant in the way only a well-bred, well-socialized young lady could be, she gently plucked her arm from Pimm's grasp. "Now that I think of it, I forgot to compliment Mrs. Richmond on her Greek temple. If you will excuse me, gentlemen."

She curtsied and dropped away, and from the sudden relaxation in her mouth, Bridger had the impression it was with some relief. She wanted to be away from him, and he refused to take offense.

Pimm's expression altered, too, the creases in his forehead deepening as Bridger came close, clapped a hand on his back, and half marched him toward the right side of the path. A few clusters of guests walked ahead of them, but Bridger wanted privacy for what he had to say.

"I was enjoying her, especially now that her dowry matches her looks," Pimm muttered. "I especially appreciate how much she despises you. We have that in common." He was half a head taller than the already tall Bridger, but he had a stooped way about him. Pimm had once been considered handsome, but day by day he squandered it on drink and late nights. A man of thirty years, those choices were corroding him, his skin red and blotchy. In his heavy brow, receding black hair, and jaw, he had always favored their father, but now, aging, Pimm resembled him ever more strongly, down to the jowly, grimacing bullfrog face.

"I don't let anyone come between me and a pretty woman," Pimm continued. He glanced over Bridger's right shoulder at Regina, leering. "Not even you, brother. Not even family."

"We're hardly that," Bridger muttered, keeping a subtle grip on the back of Pimm's morning coat. "Lane tells me he refused your begging, and that you've dreamed up some other way to make yourself less of a disgrace."

Pimm heaved a shaky laugh; with it came the sour stink of whiskey. It was hardly half past ten, and he was already in the bottle. "Richmond is free to do as he likes, and so am I. Perhaps I should hunt down a rich foreigner like he did. That would patch up our troubles, eh?"

"You've already made yourself a spectacle with your behavior in Bath, and now you're going to do it again here. I can't reasonably imagine Regina would want anything to do with you after how things ended between us." Bridger shook his head, tightening his grip. Pimm grunted, twisting against his brother's strength. "Don't fight me, you scoundrel, just listen. You're to forget Lane, you're to forget Regina, you're to leave Pressmore at once and return to Fletcher Estate. Father is in his decline, and you can make no more mischief and do no more damage to our name if you sequester yourself and let me do the patching."

"Regina?" Pimm said her name as if hearing it for the first time. That was morning drunkenness for you. He glanced back at her, eyes brightening with something like familiarity. Then he laughed again and snorted. At last, he managed to shake himself loose from Bridger's grasp, stumbling hard to the side, sending rocks skittering off the path. He had the uneasy momentum of a dead tree caught in a gale as he listed and just managed to right himself.

"You belong in a ditch, you pathetic drunk," Bridger muttered, helping his brother to stand.

"I'll take no orders from you, Captain ." Pimm spat the word, and it set flame to the dry brush of Bridger's temper. When he sold his commission, he abandoned that title. Everyone in his life knew that; Pimm knew that. "You don't get to forsake the family and then come to its rescue when it best suits you. Do what you do best, brother, scuttle away."

"Scuttling? You're out of line. I was elbows-deep in mud and guts, and now I'm establishing a business that will raise us out of calamity." Bridger's hands opened and closed, that sudden fire spreading through his chest, hot and terrible. He couldn't see anything around him but his ignorant, foolish brother. The trees vanished, the people ahead of them vanished; there was only his rage and his target. "Have you no shame, Pimm? No, don't answer that."

Pimm wasn't so drunk that he mistook the blaze in Bridger's eyes for anything but what it was: a threat. He turned, walking backward, glaring, his steps larger and faster as he tried to get away from his brother.

"Go back to Fletcher," Bridger told him in a steely whisper. "I won't ask again. Father needs you."

"To hell with Father," Pimm muttered. "And to hell with you."

Bridger's hands stopped pulsing, both becoming tight fists. Stumbling, Pimm turned, hurling himself up the shallow hill, but not before colliding headlong into the party walking ahead of them. There was a brief cry of surprise, and the bright shifting of bonnets and sleeves and gloves as the three ladies startled like a flock of exotic birds. Pimm fell against the rightmost lady, who swiveled, and half caught him by the arm as he started to go down.

It was Miss Arden—Margaret—who was unlucky enough to bear the brunt of his weight. But she fought to keep her feet even as lurching, monstrous Pimm threatened to drag her down to the cobbles. Her eyes flew to Bridger's, and she stalled, briefly confused, then angry.

Bridger held her gaze. "Madam, my apologies, if you would hold him just there…"

And she did, eyebrows lifting as Bridger took two swift steps, swung, and punched his brother squarely in the jaw. Margaret let go at the perfect moment, jumping back, letting Pimm fall to the ground like a sack of bricks.

That drew the expected gasps and whispers. Margaret stood staring at him, stunned, then moved only to grab Pimm's hat before it could roll down the hill. Her sisters fluttered behind her, flanking for support. The rest of the world returned again, his focused rage flattening, people and objects sketching themselves back in. And there, beautiful, flustered, was Miss Arden. Blood pounded in his head. She would only hate him more now.

Margaret pressed her lips together and handed him Pimm's hat.

"It gives me no pleasure to be your accomplice, sir," she said, breathing hard. "But he did step on me rudely."