Chapter 9

9

I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap.

Henry VI, Part 3, Act 3, Scene 2

Bridger had reached the main ballroom and gallery late, having been waylaid repeatedly by merry guests stopping to inquire after what page he had found. They were all under the assumption it was a game devised by the ingenious bride, and not the result of some badly timed wind and a naughty window. He knew the truth of it all thanks to Lane, and though he was sometimes given to shyness with strangers, Bridger allowed himself to be drawn into conversation about the "game" of finding the lost pages. More interesting by far was the range of opinions the work elicited. Men and women were moved differently, some delighted, others intrigued, and still others appalled.

Though he could be stubborn, he was not stupid, and the excited way these masked folk discussed the pages only instilled in him a greater urge to read the novel in its entirety.

Which you could have done, simpleton, had you given it the chance it deserved when Miss Arden sent it.

He would make good on that score, and hopefully please her, by delivering the only page he had discovered bearing her actual name. If she was at all worried about judgment from the other guests, this would be the piece that would put an anxious heart at ease.

The woman in question, the woman who was more and more preoccupying his thoughts, rose from a stone bench at the other end of the open-air gallery. The scent of honeysuckle floated to him as he caught sight of Miss Arden. There was no mistaking her, even with the mask, for she always had a slightly tilted, inquisitive posture, and luxurious, full golden waves. Someone had tried to contain that wild mane of blond hair, but only succeeded in making it somewhat more civilized, piled in a Grecian way behind a crisscross of amber-colored velvet ribbons. She was a vision, and his heart twisted, and Bridger slowed his steps, wanting to drink her in at his leisure, for when would there come another night such as this?

He put out of his mind that he was not the most attractive marriage partner. He put out of his mind the brief glimpse of Regina and Miss Arden in conversation. He put it out of his mind that above him, still in his guest chamber, his brother was trussed like a hog for slaughter. He put it all aside and went to Miss Arden.

She peered up at him, fierce blue eyes flashing behind the feathered owl mask covering half of her face.

"Have we been introduced?" he teased, recalling their less-than-auspicious first meeting.

Miss Arden laughed, shook her head, then smiled impishly. "I don't believe so. I am Artemis of the Hunt, but you…you are Hercules? Hector?"

Bridger lightly touched the edge of his mask with his free hand. "Perseus, who did not fear Medusa and slew the Gorgon terror."

Her eyes danced, radiant. Behind the mask he saw a flicker of fear and then: ferocity. She turned and began to walk, and Bridger kept pace with her. They left the cool stones of the gallery behind, stepping out into the even more intoxicating surroundings of the veranda and the hundreds of lanterns sparkling on the lawn, describing a lazy path down to the pond, where fireworks would soon erupt. "That is too bad. I have always had great affection and pity for poor Medusa, who was treated abominably by the gods."

Bridger let out a hearty laugh. "She turned men to stone!"

They stopped beside a trellis choked with purple flowers. A juggler wandered by, pretending to trip as he beheld Miss Arden in all her masked beauty. Bridger moved slightly closer to her, unnerved by the protective surge that warmed through his chest as the juggler leered, then stumbled his way giggling into the gallery behind them.

"Only because they wanted to harm her! She wasn't bothering anyone in her lonely cave," said Margaret. She sniffed, raising her head. "He didn't even beat her fairly, did he? No, he had help from Athena, Hermes, Hephaestus…"

"And where was fair Artemis to intervene?" he asked, pointing to her mask.

"Punishing Actaeon, I imagine, another loathsome creature."

"Loathsome creatures?" Bridger lifted both brows, then showed her the piece of recovered novel, which he had noticed her eyeing. "If we are such a nuisance, then we have nothing you could want, not even this, a page bearing the name of one"—he pretended to squint at the writing he had committed to memory—"Margaret Arden."

"You found it," she gasped, elated, reaching for the page.

Bridger, much taller, kept it easily out of her reach.

"Please, may I have it?" She didn't quite pout, but almost. "It is mine, after all."

"You may have it, Artemis of the Hunt, for a price."

Margaret took a step back, studying him. "Name your price, Gorgon slayer."

"I simply want to read the novel in its entirety," said Bridger, bowing.

She scoffed. "Ha! I believe you already had your chance, Mr. Darrow—"

"Gorgon slayer, please."

"Perseus." She spat it. Her mood shifted abruptly, her arms draping around her waist as if to guard herself from him. From somewhere inside, a bell tolled. It had a high, crystal quality, but it seemed unsettling to him; it had a fateful element that he did not trust. Bridger watched as guests began pouring out of the house, including Margaret's family, Regina Applethwaite, Lane, Emilia, and so on, everyone laughing and enjoying one another. Bridger felt like a buoy tossed by a storm as they flowed around him and Margaret.

"Come now, you two!" Lane called, gesturing for them to follow. "You must see the fireworks! Ann's parents have sent them from Calcutta! 'Tis a shame Ann has gone up to bed with a headache, she is going to miss all the fun."

He didn't move; neither did Margaret.

Jostled this way and that, she continued to glare up at him. "Honestly, I don't know why you are suddenly so keen on this novel of mine, for I have heard that you regard writers of my sex as undeserving of your notice, and that such women are of low character. Beneath you."

That warm, protective surge from before turned hot, angry. "What have you heard?" he demanded, perhaps a bit strongly. His eyes followed the stream of guests parading down to the water, finding Regina among them. He knew it. Regina had taken Miss Arden aside and poisoned her against him. And why wouldn't she? He had treated her badly, and yes, repeated his father's feelings that a lady too taken in by novels and with a low dowry was not desirable enough to tempt him.

Margaret ignored his question, jutting out her chin. "Pray, what are your thoughts on Pride and Prejudice ? I must have them."

Ah. And so, he had, in a letter, described the characters in that novel as being drawn a bit broadly, and Jane Bennet to be almost painfully insipid, opinions that had greatly offended Regina, on top of all the other blundering things he said. He had actually admired the passionate riposte, to the point that he agreed with and adopted some of her feelings on the novel, but the damage was already done.

In all of that, he couldn't remember expressing a general indictment against lady novelists, but it had been a bleak time in his life, and youthful opinions were never meant to be etched in stone.

Bridger looked down at the ground between them, flustered into a place between disappointment and indignation. "I see you have been enjoying Miss Applethwaite's company. I should not be shocked that she has tried to sway you against me, and her intent is plain. Perhaps we did not dissolve things amicably, but I've never wished her ill, and, indeed, there are many fine writers of your sex that I have been known to read and praise, so even there she paints me with the wrong colors."

Even to his own ears, he sounded defensive. Bridger flinched.

Margaret, however, did not. "Many, is it? Name them."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Which writers specifically, sir? I would like you to name them."

Bridger groaned and turned away. Was she serious? The procession left the main house behind, passed the stone cottage on the right, and dipped down toward a bowl of a valley and the wide pond at the base of it. To the east, that pond narrowed into a river that disappeared into the dense woods hugging all sides of the property. There was a commotion down on the water's edge, a collection of crates and metal stands, and men stripped down to their shirtsleeves, hard at work.

"If they are so plentiful and you respect them so much, it should not be difficult," she added, clearly enjoying his reaction. Regina was wrong about him—the old him, not the current him—but he felt his mind reel and blank at the first pop of sound. He didn't have time to answer her or think, for down over the water, noise and color blazed, and all was briefly chaos. Pinwheels of light exploded near the water's edge, the reflection a blur of silver suns. Each boom was followed by a brief delay, then the stunning flowers of white and gold would bloom in the sky and weep down toward the water before twinkling into nothingness.

"Isn't it marvelous?" a voice inside the house cried. "Isn't it magical?"

His stomach soured from the reek of the gunpowder, and with the sunbursts mounted near the pond giving their last sizzling twirls, he discovered the stones of the veranda beneath his sweat-dampened gloves. He must have collapsed, though he didn't remember the tumble. The sounds. The smells. It had all transported him back to the war, and to the ugliness that lurked in memories he had tried doggedly to forget.

Someone was kneeling beside him, touching his shoulder carefully.

Bridger twisted to the side, discovering Margaret there with him. She had taken off her mask, and the care and concern in her face broke through the jolt of terror that had brought him crashing to the ground. Her lips were gently parted as she searched his mask for answers. Answers. A question. She had asked a question before the noise tore him from reality.

"You," he said in a whisper.

"Me?" She blinked.

"You," he repeated, forgetting all about her questioning.

"We were speaking of lady writers."

"Oh." He blinked hard, ears ringing, disoriented. "No, never mind that…"

"Here," she said. The warmth and care had vanished from her gaze. She spoke directly, as if to a stranger who had fallen in the street. "Come, let me help you stand."

Lane had always told him what a relief it was to find Ann, to discover a person who could stick it out through the bad nights and the inevitable resurgence of horrid memories. Her understanding had been a balm, he said, one he needed now, one he depended upon. Margaret guided him to his feet, and the glances full of judgment and disgust that he expected never came.

Bridger tried to focus again on what they had been discussing, but it was difficult. "I've given offense," he muttered.

"No, no. My father was haunted by certain things," she told him, and yet, cold. "He served on a seventy-four gun, third-class ship of the line. The HMS Lionheart ."

Bridger dusted off his jacket and waistcoat, coming back to himself. "I see," he said.

"There is no need to be embarrassed," Margaret added, correctly interpreting the red skin beneath his cravat. "The stories my father told were harrowing, and I always suspected he spared me the worst of it. I can't begin to imagine what you witnessed in France."

In his shock, Bridger had dropped the recovered page with her name on it. To his horror, it was nowhere to be seen. Blown away or swallowed by the shadows, it was gone. Then, the guests who had gone to watch the fireworks returned, swarming up the lantern-strewn lawn. Lane was at the front of them and came directly to Bridger.

He tore off his mask, taking Bridger by the forearm. "Blazes, man, are you well? I saw you go down. The fireworks…did it…did you…"

"Fine, my friend," Bridger assured him, shaking off the last of his cold sweat. He looked askance at Margaret, who stole cautious glances at him. "I suppose this is a spot more civilized than Toulouse, eh?"

"A spot, a spot." Lane laughed grimly.

"Only my pride is bruised," Bridger added. And here, he looked firmly at Miss Arden. He was beginning to realize he was more embarrassed for having failed her test than reacting intensely to the explosions. She offered back nothing, her face impossible to read.

Lane clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing, as if searching for weaknesses. "Well, then, if you are fit for it, I believe it is now our solemn duty to drain the punch bowls and present ourselves for one last dance, mm?"

There was more he wished to say to Miss Arden, but more and more guests were filling in the spaces around them. Bridger shouldered his way back to her side, clearing his throat, speaking in a tone just for her ears.

"Not Perseus, then," he said, by way of truce. "Not Actaeon, not Hector…"

"Achilles?" she asked. "We are all of us vulnerable in our own way."

Bridger's chest swelled with relief, and with admiration for her generosity, but with incredible timing, Regina made herself known, winding her way between attendees, coming to stand between Lane and Bridger. Her attention was fixed, hawklike, on Margaret, and there was a hard meanness to her pinched smile that concerned him. Subtly, he tried to plant himself between the women. But Regina's companion tugged on her puffed sleeve, and, turning toward the veranda, the back of the house, and the balcony above, Regina's eyes slid up and up, lingering for a moment before she turned toward Lane.

"It appears your wife is not yet abed, and pray, who is that with her?" asked Regina, pointing to the upper floors with her fan.

Naturally, Regina's question directed everyone's attention to the balcony. Its railings were soft with climbing ivy and wisteria, and it jutted out over a set of tall doors that led out to the promenade and the gardens. Two figures stood silhouetted against the soft yellow light emanating from inside the house. The lady of the pair was partially hidden by a starry veil and elaborate mask, and Bridger recognized it as Ann's at once. A tall fellow was with her, also masked, his back partially to the outdoors, for the two of them had retreated almost inside. Almost but not quite.

Lane's lingering laughter died down as the man pulled Ann into a tight embrace, and, cupping her face with both hands, kissed her. They embraced passionately, seemingly unaware of their rapt and scandalized audience.