Chapter 7

7

The violence of either grief or joy

Their own enactures with themselves destroy.

Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2

The visitor came at a quarter to five, just after tea. Bridger sprang out of his chair, crossed the guest room with swift, silent strides, and pressed himself against the wall to the left of the door.

He left the found pages of Margaret Arden's book on the little table near the balcony where he had been sitting, revisiting her words. Poring over them, actually, if he were to be honest.

Well. It was only a matter of time before Pimm retaliated. His brother was an oaf, but an oaf with pride who wouldn't take the punch as it was intended—as a warning. No, Pimm would view it as a challenge. It had ever been thus, particularly as boys, though in those days, Pimm was the one doing the hair pulling, kicking, and punching. He often tried to goad Bridger into scraps, while Bridger preferred to read either in the safety and comfort of the family's library or under his favorite tree, whichever kept him farthest from Pimm and their father. Earlier, Lane's valet had informed Bridger that his brother was not there to be collected or coaxed when staff searched near the chapel. The brothers were sharing a set of rooms with a connecting door, and there had been silence on the other side of that door, indicating Pimm was out. Likely, Pimm had retreated somewhere to lick his wounds and formulate a plan, the loose details of which he enacted at this very moment.

Bridger quelled a sigh. Sometimes he wished Pimm was more prone to surprising him—at least, in a small way, it indicated he could one day change for the better. Instead, and as expected, Pimm thumped clumsily on the door. A smarter man would have at least tried to mimic the staff's way of coming and going, but no, Pimm slammed his ham hock of a fist against the door, once, twice, before Bridger leaned forward, gave a quick tug on the handle, and let his brother crash inside.

"That was a cheap go," Pimm was muttering, spinning to locate his brother. He had the unsteady, toddler looseness of a man deep in his cups. "I'll get you back for that, brother."

He meant the punch, of course. And if his bloodshot, wild eyes were any indication, Pimm was still in that moment, still in the middle of being struck, the shock and pain and humiliation as real and confining as bars on a cage.

"I'd rather not thump you again," Bridger warned, easily dodging a sloppy attempt from his brother. "But I will if you insist."

"Ha! Little brother! Little…brother…Come here…" He was drunker than Bridger initially thought. Red-faced and sweating, Pimm barreled toward him. It was abrupt enough to catch him off guard. The two men careened across the room, upsetting a delicate side table, the vase upon it, before slamming into the far wall, the top of Pimm's head lodged up under Bridger's throat. He briefly saw stars, the flare of panic from being choked flooding his body with vigor. Burly and volatile, Pimm had engaged in his fair share of brawls, but Bridger was a military man. He had seen men die in ways he could never forget. Little remained of his and Lane's light dragoon regiment; most of those spared by the battlefield had taken their own lives in ways fast or slow, either with a rifle or the bottle. Pimm's skull digging into his chest seemed to blot out the present, returning him to a man he no longer wanted to be.

There were distant shouts and the reek of gun smoke, bleak ghosts on the edge of memory that plunged him deeper into the rage rising like a squall. Just memories, just hateful memories…

He grabbed his brother by the ears and twisted, hard, until Pimm cried out and sank down. As he lowered, Bridger brought his right knee up, just hard enough to make his brother regret ramming into him in the first place. Knee met jaw, and Pimm rolled toward the wall, the liquor roaring through his blood keeping him from collapsing. Bridger wasn't interested in a prolonged fight; he snatched up the fallen vase from the side table and smashed it over Pimm's head.

Lane arrived not long after to find Bridger smoking a pipe, brooding in a chair, long legs stretched out before him, not far from where his brother lay tied up and gagged.

Head down, holding two cravats in his one hand, Lane was too busy explaining his fashion dilemma to notice the quasi-hostage-taking before him. "Do you know, I quite prefer this blue with the diamonds, but Ann insists the yellow is better suited to our costumes—oh. Oh. Blazes, Bridger, what on earth happened? Is he all right? Are you?"

Lane stared down at Pimm, nearly stumbling over him. The man had gone to sleep after a while, coaxed into unconsciousness by the alcohol that had fueled his initial inclination to storm the room.

Bridger took a draw from his pipe and let the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "I'm not proud of it," he murmured. "And yes, I'm only lightly bruised. Pimm…well, he'll sleep it off."

"A relief, to be sure. What do you plan to do with him?"

"Send him back to Fletcher, naturally. Under his own power, preferably, like this if I must." The tobacco was doing nothing to address the headache blooming steadily across the back of his head. Bridger rubbed the base of his skull. "He stumbled in here, dead-drunk, and thought it would be wise to push me up against a wall." He sighed and nodded toward the broken vase near the site of the incident. "And, um, apologies for the vase."

"Mother has so many, I hardly think she'll notice." Lane lowered the cravats, frowning down at Pimm for a prolonged moment. "It's like he doesn't know you at all."

Snorting, Bridger sat forward, propping his forearms on his thighs. "He doesn't. He had one thing right in that churchyard—I haven't been around for him to know. Not for him, not for Father…" His eyes settled near Lane's shoes. "Not for you."

Sidestepping Pimm, Lane came to stand near him, placing a gentle hand and both cravats on his shoulder. "You're here now. So, blue or yellow?"

That reminded him—it was time to dress for the masquerade.

Bridger smirked, standing, and regarded the cravats at a distance. It was just for show; the answer was obvious. "Ann is your lady wife, my friend, so yellow is the only choice."

"This is why she approves of our friendship." Lane laughed and went to the open balcony doors. Bridger joined him, soothed, finally, by the tobacco drawn deep from the pipe. The invigorating scent of early evening flowers was carried in on an undulating breeze. As dusk arrived, the lanterns placed out in the garden and veranda began to twinkle softly like playful fireflies lying in wait for the masquerade. Bridger wanted to look at it with hopeful eyes, but he couldn't forget his bound and bruised brother in the room behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed Pimm beginning to stir.

"Maybe I should go, Lane. Leave now and take him there myself."

"There's no need for that. No need to retreat."

But the retreat, the isolation, was easier. A quiet corner with a well-loved book, that was easier. He couldn't disappoint or fail anyone when he was on his own. Bridger lowered the pipe, staring out over the grounds with cooling eyes. He felt his mentor, John, watching him from beyond the grave, and his father, and the men of the regiment he couldn't save. Shivering, he did indeed retreat, but inward. A desire flashed briefly before him—he could just ask Lane for the money to stabilize the family's finances here and now. Lane would oblige him.

"And anyway, Ann would kill me if you left now. This confounding masquerade is her masterpiece, and she is determined that it change the world," Lane told him, smiling down at the yellow cravat in his grasp.

"Change the world? Lofty expectations."

"That's Ann." Lane's head lifted, and Bridger felt the pressure of his stare.

"What?" he asked, shifting away.

"Perhaps not change the world, then, but change you," said Lane. "I'm sure you observed her at work already. She rearranged the breakfast seating just to put you and Miss Arden near each other."

The momentary willingness to ask for help passed, fleeting as a summer rain shower.

Bridger stiffened outwardly, even as his heart did a weird thing at the mention of her name. "Ah. That explains things. Your new wife may be hard at work, but so is the devil. I noted Regina Applethwaite swooping in on her. I'm already at a deficit where she's concerned. With Regina's influence she will never glance my way again."

"It isn't like you to give up easily," said Lane, peering. "A man of your age needs ties and anchors lest he drift away."

Though Bridger agreed, he was not exactly an attractive match at the moment. Until his financial woes were resolved, it was unlikely any lady would agree to marry him. But Lane was of the mind that there were no issues there, so Bridger merely grunted and changed the subject. "What is Regina doing here anyway?"

"She was introduced to Ann this winter and they became quickly attached. Ann was desperate for company at the operas, and I didn't have the heart to tell her things were uneasy between you and Regina." Lane shuddered and tracked back inside, Bridger turning to watch him go. No doubt it was time for them both to hasten their preparations for the evening's event. "If it will help, I could employ Ann's sister and cousin for the night. They are always eager to be included in a scheme, and if you need them to keep Regina busy it would be a small ask," his friend said, giving Pimm a wide berth on his way to the door. "In fact, it might be good to set them a task. They are nearly as mischievous as Ann herself."

Bridger waved him off from the balcony. "Where Miss Arden and her whims are concerned, perhaps we should let fate decide."

He heard his friend chuckle and pause at the door. "Men at some time are masters of their fates," he called. "I seem to recall you quoting that endlessly on campaign."

His friend had him there. The words of Shakespeare and Donne and Blake had flowed freely from him to the men, for somehow it had been easier to keep his head up and stay the course confidently when everything was on the line. Now, faced with civilian affairs, it wasn't nearly so straightforward. No longer was the mandate "stay alive" but live. Thrive.

"Yes," he replied. "I was insufferable."

"Still are," Lane teased, and, halfway out the door, cravats tucked up under his chin, indicated Pimm on the floor between them. "Don't breathe a word of this to Ann, mm? I'd rather she not hear about this little squabble until after her grand plan is executed. Let tonight be just for magic."

With a wink and a smile, Lane disappeared, and Bridger was alone with his pipe, his brother, and his thoughts. He only wanted one of those—his pipe. Snuff was more the fashion, but smoking had gotten him through desolate nights in France, and he liked having something to fuss with and paw and chew. A dragon of white smoke drifted off the balcony, puffed from his lips, joining the bunting and boughs strung between the pavilion poles and threaded through the railings of the veranda. The view swept down to the lake, where a small boat floated like a children's paper toy, relatively still in the docile wind.

He could only imagine what people would say when they found out about him wrangling his brother into bindings, and he could only imagine what Regina had whispered to Miss Arden. Nothing good, he wagered, for with the sour end to their courtship, he assumed Regina had delivered a warning of one kind or another. The understanding between them had dissolved while he was in France, and like the rage that came on suddenly inside him, he wished that part of him was forever lost. Was he any different now? Truly? Here he was, still cleaning up family messes. But he was also a man who relished the smell of ink and the feel of paper beneath his hands, a man who nearly wept when he first saw a papermaking Fourdrinier machine in action. Even now, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine the churn of the machine, the damp mulchy smell of the linen pulp, and the warmth of the heated rollers as they dried the paper. A man of direction and passions, a man who could be better.

The memories of ink and paper made him smile. More than the tobacco, more than the fresh air, they soothed him. That once-docile wind whipped up from the lake, screaming across the estate grounds and toward him on the balcony. It carried a gift or a curse, depending on one's perspective. With eyes closed, he felt the wet smack of paper against his cheek. It wasn't part of his Fourdrinier machine daydream, but fate, maybe, tipping its hand.

A night for magic, indeed.

Bridger nearly dropped the pipe dangling from his lips. He scrambled to catch the page that had blown in on the wind. It was another lost artifact of Miss Arden's novel, the title page, in fact. Holding it at arm's length, he grinned crookedly, taken by an unexpected moment of tenderness. The stroke of the pen over her name, though the presence of dew or lake water had caused it to run, was confident, and he imagined her bent over her desk, tongue poking out between her lips in concentration as she boldly put her name to her work. He didn't know why, but the tongue thing seemed important. And if he didn't hurry and dress, he wouldn't be seeing her or her tongue in any capacity that evening.

It rather felt like history repeating itself. He had squandered his chances with a pretty, book-loving lady before, and now here he was, intrigued by another one.

"Would any other pages like to join us?" he asked with a light laugh, waiting a beat before going inside, closing the balcony doors, and setting out the paper to smooth and dry on the bedside dresser. He rang the bell for a manservant to help with dressing, and while waiting, so as not to alarm the staff, he dragged Pimm through the door connecting their rooms. His brother groaned in his stuporous sleep but settled again once placed on the rug.

Back in his own room, he at once found himself glancing at the page near his bed. It felt like it had grown a presence, as if a small, lingering vestige of Miss Arden lived in it. Her eyes and conversation had been lively at breakfast, and it had been a long, long while since he enjoyed the company of a woman. There had been dalliances in France, but any serious man looking to build a life would want a wife.

Ann's desire for magic, it seemed, was spreading. Regina's interference be damned, he would deliver that title page to Miss Arden himself.