Chapter 6

6

Get thee a good husband,

and use him as he uses thee.

All's Well That Ends Well, Act 1, Scene 1

"Someone will collect him, surely." The woman sitting beside Maggie at breakfast sounded distraught. "They can't just leave him on the road like that, can they? It could rain!"

Aghast described the general mood of the guests as the breads, sweet rolls, soft, decadent eggs, and mountains of roast capon and succulent tongue were devoured. The long tables were arranged under the intensifying glow of sunshine burning in through the tall windows that looked out onto the veranda. There, the pavilions, hung with bunting, garlands, and banners, promised even more excitement. The red patterned carpets and lush curtains of the dining room made it feel as if they were satiating themselves inside a polished garnet.

There was an empty seat across from Maggie as she carefully sipped her chocolate and moved a bit of food around her plate. Everyone was in an uproar about Paul Darrow being attacked by his brother, but opinions were split—some were certain he deserved it but decried the uncivilized nature of the act; others were calling Bridger Darrow all manner of unkind things.

Violet and Winny, seated near her, came down on their own side—that he had almost crushed Maggie into a paste and therefore got what was coming to him. Maggie had never seen anyone lose control like that and, in the pit of her stomach, had to admit to herself it was thrilling. Papa had recalled many such brawls from his naval service, though of course fights were forbidden, and punished, but men trapped together on a ship for months at a time were prone to vehement disagreement. The ins and outs of the argument that led to this specific punch eluded her, but she was picking up bits and pieces from the gossips working tirelessly at the breakfast tables.

"It sounds as if he left a terrible situation behind in Bath," whispered Violet, repeating to her what had been repeated to Winny. The information traveled in a tittering chain over clinking porcelain and silver. Meanwhile, at the end of the table, Bridger Darrow leaned down to speak with Lane. Maggie's eyes traveled back to the suspiciously vacant chair across from her, then to Ann, who, at the other end of the table, caught her eye and grinned. Then, Bridger Darrow finished speaking with Lane and strode to that very chair, excusing himself to those around him as he removed his gloves and sat.

There was a withdrawn, hunted air about him.

At once, the whispers changed like the sudden redirection of the wind. All mentions of "Darrow" ceased as nervous smiles were hastily offered and plastered in place. Maggie glared around at it with naked disdain until she noticed Aunt Eliza observing her, and she, too, smiled, but only down at her cup of chocolate.

Mr. Darrow attacked a breast of capon with the single-mindedness of a man determined not to be perceived. Maggie joined him, alarmed at the red marks on his knuckles but unable to look away from them.

The whispering winds ebbed and flowed, and to her mortification, returned to the subject she had hoped they would avoid.

Her.

"I found a page lodged in my balcony," said the woman who had just been fretting about rain. Her voice rose and fell like a singer practicing scales. Even half turned away from Maggie, it was easy enough to overhear her stage-whispering to her companion. "A lot of nonsense about a woman wearing trousers on a boat. Mr. Carlton told me not to read it, for he heard the content was not at all for ladies."

"It is sabotage, I tell you!" said the woman's companion. "And one need hardly wonder why. Ann Graddock has her detractors, you know, given her origin. Not me! Of course, but there are detractors—"

"Heavens, no, not you! Nor I!"

"No, never, you should never hear me disparaging Miss Graddock."

"Mrs. Richmond," Maggie remarked dryly and with a lengthy sigh. "Mrs. Ann Richmond, you mean."

"Yes, thank you, my dear, thank you," said the first woman, whom Maggie had been introduced to that morning. She had already forgotten the lady's name. Maggie's interruption was immediately forgotten. "There were objections, at first, among the family. Perhaps those objections persist."

Maggie shifted, angry on Ann's behalf. Ann had worked hard to win the hearts and minds of London society after arriving from India with her father, James Lysander Graddock. An East India Company resident, he had fallen hopelessly in love with a Lakhnau courtier named Nourin. Ann was soon born to them and named Halima Rizvi, choosing to restyle herself as Ann Graddock when she later arrived in England.

"Scattering filth all over the estate the day before the wedding," the woman continued, fanning herself. "It can only be to embarrass the bride! How awful! Poor Mrs. Graddock—Richmond."

Maggie wanted to disappear beneath the table. Her neck itched, and it felt like every inch of her was turning crimson. She respected Ann and wanted to count her as a close friend, and now her "filth" was being categorized as an intentional slight against Ann and her marriage to Lane. She glanced at Violet, wondering if her sister would help her feign an illness.

"Rather…" Mr. Darrow had spoken up, emerging from the silent, self-imposed exile of his capon consumption. He coughed lightly, drawing the attention of the gossiping ladies, who fixed him with stern, suspicious glares. Heartbeats earlier, he had been the object of their scorn. Maggie adopted his method, staring resolutely at her tortured food while she turned into a human candle, bright and burning. "The pages I was fortunate enough to find were diverting. I certainly wouldn't call them ‘filth.' In fact, I think it might be…a game of sorts. Perhaps we the guests are meant to piece the story together tonight at the masquerade. What do you think, Miss Arden?"

Her eyes raised slowly from the candelabra and flowers between them to his dark blue cravat to his stormy eyes. Maggie froze. Was he rescuing her?

"A game," she repeated, slowly. "Why…it's possible. Ann does love a surprise."

"Hmm." The woman frowned. "She does tend toward the extravagant. Whoever thought to hold such a lavish wedding, and with a masquerade? Perhaps you two are on to something."

"Mrs. Richmond looks at ease, does she not?" Darrow continued. The tables and cloth were cleared as the cake was being brought out, the many-coursed midmorning meal drawing to its conclusion. "Why, if this was some scheme against the marriage, she would have had Pressmore scoured of the offending pages in hours."

The lady's companion, seated farther down the row, was not convinced. She was dressed in muted pink, graying brown ringlets hanging in front of her ears, a Mrs. Allery or Valery or some such. "Or she is putting on a fine show. If it were my event ruined by this mystery, the perpetrator would not be welcome in my home or circle ever again."

"And yet this occasion will be the talk of the ton for months," said Darrow with a light shrug. "In this way, Mrs. Ann Richmond has triumphed." Mrs. Allery or Valery sniffed. "If this is an insult, she has found a way to turn it in her favor. A remarkable skill, don't you agree, Miss Arden?"

Maggie tried not to give herself away with a bark of laughter. "That is Ann, through and through."

"And what do you make of the pages?" he pressed, holding her gaze. Maggie ached to look away but couldn't. She felt breathless and a little stupid, as if no more than a searching look from him could rob her of all sense. Her first impression of him, before he opened his mouth, was devilishly hard to eradicate. Yes, he had tainted it with his nasty remarks about her book, but here he was, as darkly handsome as ever, attempting to steer her boat out of dangerous waters. Or mock her. Maggie stiffened and slipped away, and she saw the flicker of disappointment cross his face as she tore her attention from his arresting eyes and regarded her cup.

"Whoever it is," she risked, unable to help herself, "I think they write very well, not at all overwrought, as some novels are these days."

Mr. Darrow smirked, sitting back. "From what I gather, it could stand up to a bracing edit."

Maggie laughed at him. "Is that so? Perhaps you should read the novel in its entirety before making any sweeping judgments as to its content or quality."

"It is the nature of my profession to make these assessments," said Darrow, his brow darkening. He rubbed a spot on the table with his forefinger, agitated. "I must ask, from what position of authority do you speak on the subject, Miss Arden? Are you yourself a novelist?"

The ladies recoiled and gasped.

"I speak from the position of my good opinion," Maggie replied, sharp. "I have loved books all my life, sir. There is more ink than blood in my veins."

He regarded her over a long, agonizing silence. That busy little muscle worked in his jaw again. His gaze was intent, igniting, and Maggie shifted in her chair. At last, he said, "There is no harm in the alteration of form, so long as the change is in the spirit of improvement."

"Good heavens, how much of the thing have you found?" Mrs. Allery-Valery guffawed, breaking the spell that had fallen over them. Maggie nearly jumped. She didn't like admitting it, but she wanted to feel that singular spark thrill through her again, the one that crackled through her when their eyes met.

Darrow cleared his throat, shook his head, and said, "Enough. Enough to see its great potential."

"Perhaps you should publish it, Mr. Darrow!" cried the woman, extremely amused at herself. "Wouldn't that be the best end to this mystery?"

Mr. Darrow tilted his head briefly to the side, his gaze sliding along Maggie's left arm, up to her chin, and lingering there. It made her shiver. "Mm. I may have a mind to do just that."

Over her untouched slice of cake, Maggie stilled. "If the author is discovered."

"Indeed," he repeated with a warm laugh. "If."

"I, for one, will need it all resolved before we quit Pressmore." Mrs. Allery-Valery sighed.

"Some things are better left to the imagination, I think," Maggie murmured, remembering Aunt Eliza, remembering the challenge before her. To be good. To set an example. To put her sisters and future before her passion. "These days, not enough is left to dreams and wonder."

Not long after, the men stayed to drink port, while the ladies scattered to the drawing room and the gardens. Maggie could feel Mr. Darrow trying to catch her attention as she left the ballroom, but she refused him. She was equally elated and dismayed to be parted from him, for wasn't he utterly perplexing? First hating her book and then defending it! Gallant one moment and striking his brother publicly the next. She couldn't fit him neatly into a person-shaped box, and the puzzling left her over-warm, so she was grateful, at least, for the freedom and air afforded by the outdoors, even if the sun was intent on blazing. She propped herself on a stone banister at the edge of the veranda and pressed the back of her hand to her cheeks, shocked at how feverish she had become.

The garden was swarming. Such colossal waves of guests were not at all common for a wedding, nor was the amount of family and friends who had arrived from every corner of the country to attend, nor the general extravagance, nor the celebratory masquerade that was to be held later that day, but Ann and Lane never did anything the expected way. Particularly Ann. She was the height of glamour and envy in London. Ann and Lane's drums beat off-kilter, which was perhaps what had endeared them to each other in the first place, and what endeared them to Margaret as a couple. Their wealth afforded them the privilege of eccentricity, a quality shunned in the less advantaged but tolerated and sometimes celebrated among the rich. One could pick them immediately out of any crowd, with smiles like diamonds and almost identically stark belly laughs.

Winny had come out of the house with Ann's sister, Emilia, and the young ladies chatted amiably, winding through the clusters of guests enjoying the sunshine and the morning. Ann's tagalong cousin, Ruby, was also with them, lagging behind; she was strikingly tall, and someone must have pointed that out at an impressionable age, for she was always in the middle of performing a shorter stature—drooping, leaning, hunching. All around them, people spoke of the weather in an English way, and politely discussed Ann's gown and the refreshments and the groundskeeping.

Bunched at the bottom of one of the pavilion poles, tangled among some fabric and green ribbons, Maggie spied another wayward page of The Killbride . Reddening, she hurried over to the pole, pretending to drop her glove to snatch up the crumpled paper. She slid away as smoothly as she could, aiming for Winny and Emilia, hoping at least to be distracted by their chitchat.

But she was intercepted by Ann, escorting a chilly beauty in a blue-and-silver gown. Her white-blond ringlets were piled on her head, the narrow column of her throat shining in the morning sunlight. Ann's brown skin and sleek black hair contrasted starkly with the other woman, who looked like she might have been freshly plucked from a winter garden.

"Miss Regina Applethwaite," Ann introduced, passing off the lovely lady in something of a rush. "May I present Miss Margaret Arden? Regina was desirous to meet you, Maggie. She has heard of your great affection for books and the art of writing."

Maggie brightened, eager, and curtsied politely. She knew with just a glance that Miss Applethwaite was rich, accomplished, and much sought-after. Rumors had circulated about her family's precipitous rise, a fortune in trade contracts pulling Regina out of obscurity. Money or none, she had the air of a woman who had always been beautiful and always known it. There was a controlled, swanlike bearing to her that Maggie both admired and envied, for she sketched poorly, played badly, sang passionately but with questionable skill, and would never call her stitches perfect. All of her time and love had gone into her family and her books, and her accomplishments reflected as much.

"I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance," said Regina as Ann breezed away, the unquestionable lady of the hour. "And it appears I have done so just in time."

"Just in time?" Maggie asked, giving the lady her undivided attention.

Regina folded her hands together prettily, casting an icy glance around. Through the window of the ballroom, she spied Mr. Bridger Darrow, and her eyes lingered there for a deliberate heartbeat. "Come closer, Miss Arden. What I have to say should only be said in confidence."

Maggie inched closer, breathing in the lady's pristine lily of the valley scent.

"I observed you and Mr. Darrow speaking at the breakfast table," Regina murmured, thin eyebrows tented. "And I must warn you, as one who knows him well, you must guard your heart against any overtures he makes. Whatever delicate compliments he pays, whatever oaths he swears, he has nothing but disdain for women like you and me."