Much Ado About Margaret

1

London 1817

I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might.

Julius Caesar, Act 2, Scene 4

April

According to Margaret Arden’s mother and aunts, the thing Margaret required most in life was a wealthy husband; according to Maggie herself, what she needed was to see her name embossed on the spine of a novel. Every person had a raison d’être, and Maggie had been aware of hers almost since the spark of consciousness. Her imaginative cup overfloweth, and so, naturally, she had begun telling stories to anyone who would listen (usually, her much-­put-­upon father) and later, when furnished with pen and ink, set these ideas down on paper. This obsession had culminated toward the middle of her twenty-­second year, when she completed her third (and to date, best) novel, The Killbride. That same accomplishment, painstakingly copied in her best hand, was now improbably bundled in one of her sister Violet’s shawls and tucked under her arm. It was heavy, the manuscript, and the room was very warm, and she worried increasingly that the book was going to be soaked in sweat by the time it was delivered to its destination.

Her younger sisters—­Violet and Winny—­were her coconspirators in everything. They stood beside her at the edge of all the mingling in their aunt’s salon. They were both aware of the plan, and, cursed by that knowledge, fidgeted. Winny was even sweatier than Maggie, her ivory skin drained of blood. Papa, God rest him, had always referred to Maggie as his summer, bold, golden, and warm. Violet was his winter, with her lush, dark hair and frosty blue eyes. And Winny, Mr. Arden’s youngest, was a shy and delicate spring, sweet yet trepidatious. Maggie missed their father every minute and tried not to resent him for the precarious social climate his early passing had created.

If Maggie was being honest with herself, and she usually was, she needed a rich husband and she needed one now. There were several prospects present at this event, but to her they were vague blurs in the crowd. The girls were in town to pick out suitable attire for an upcoming stay at their cousin’s country home and his wedding, and their aunt had been gracious enough to float them down Frith Street to a fashionable modiste, where Violet and Winny made themselves apoplectic over silks while Maggie fretted over ways to make their brief time in London productive. It had come to her attention that her aunt ran in the same social circle as one of the editors who had received a copy of Maggie’s book in the post. He had never responded, which had to be a mistake, because The Killbride was exceptional stuff and the people cried out for it. It had only taken minimal nudging from Violet, who possessed the theatrical charms of Sarah Siddons and the oratory cunning of the prime minister, to convince their aunt that this editor should receive an invitation to her poetry salon that coming Sunday.

“No room should be this warm,” said Violet, squishing around in her shoes beside Maggie. They had been barricaded by several ladies locked in conversation with the guest poet in the library, and though the fireplace was clear across the room, it was abnormally hot. “I think my hair is going to catch fire,” she added. “Hurry up and humiliate yourself, Maggie, so we might go outside to relieve the heat.”

“Yes, do hurry,” added Winny, who looked equally miserable. Her golden-­brown ringlets were beginning to droop frightfully.

“You look ridiculous with that thing under your arm,” said Violet.

“It’s practical,” Maggie replied, but it was a weak defense. “How else am I to convince Mr. Darrow to publish my work? He has to see it to experience its excellence.”

“You’re not to do it at all,” Violet reminded her. “You’re to throw that sweaty kindling in the fire where it belongs and do as Mother wishes. You’re to go on Auntie’s arm to Mr. Gainswell or Mr. Terrington, make introductions, and bat your eyelashes until one of them loves you and then we can move out of the cottage and into a real house.”

“Impossible.” Maggie sighed. Violet was right, of course, but reality wasn’t about to get in the way of her dreams.

“I can smell Mr. Gainswell’s gouty feet from here,” said Winny, sensibly and in a whisper.

“See? Do you want to live in a stinky-­foot house?” asked Maggie, glaring at Violet. Violet was somehow impervious to the damp heat in the room and looked perfect, as always, striking and pointed as a stuffed viper.

“If it’s grand enough,” Violet murmured.

“There is Aunt Eliza,” said Winny, pointing. “You should have her make introductions.”

“How are you going to explain that thing under your arm? She’s going to notice,” added Violet.

Maggie frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Tell a story, sister, it’s what you do best.” Violet was not being encouraging. She didn’t understand the pressure of being the eldest, of having to save the family from ruin while casting aside all thought of her dreams. Maggie wanted impossible things—­to write her books and share them with the world and marry well enough to drag her mother and sisters out of poverty. They were surviving on their aunt’s charity, for without a son, their father’s sudden death had been a devastating blow, emotionally and financially. She couldn’t decide what dear Papa wanted from her. As he lay dying, he had urged her to look to the family, and specifically to her sisters, to set an example, guide them, and help them find their way in a world unforgiving and unkind to the “wrong” sort of girl.

The sort of girl that spent more time worrying about her novels than her future.

The sort of girl who never bothered much with thinking about marriage prospects.

And yet Maggie’s life up to his death suggested he wanted more for her. She was born on April 23, just like Shakespeare. She had been loudly imaginative and theatrical until early adolescence, when such behavior was no longer considered charming or permissible. All of that bursting color lived inside her now, hidden, allowed to come out only in her work, which was something her father had understood. She remembered him finding her asleep at her writing desk, ink smudged across her cheek, the candles melted to puddles. Papa would scoop her up and carry her to bed and sing no lullabies but recall the lives of the poets and storytellers he admired.

Maggie watched their aunt threading her way through the guests toward them. She was a tall, slender woman with fine, birdlike features and graying blond hair. Their mother had married for love, their aunt had married for status, and it showed. Maggie didn’t think this with any nasty intent—­their uncle was kind enough, but she could see the void of emotionless ambivalence that grew day by day between him and Auntie. There was nothing but cold recognition when their eyes met across a room, and their aunt kept a full social schedule to avoid spending time with her husband, Mr. Burton. Maggie dreaded such a life, though she tried to console herself with the thought that it would at least allow for plenty of time to write.

No, it wouldn’t, you silly goose, that sort of husband would discourage your passions and imagination at every turn.

“Girls! Look at you packed back here like tinned herrings; you look utterly stifled.” Their aunt frowned and motioned them forward, dispersing the women and poet with a wave of her fan. “Violet, stop slouching. Winny, my dear, are you well? If you’re going to faint, please do so over here, where there are sofas. Heavens, you are all so shiny, some blotting would not go awry.”

“Your timing couldn’t be more wonderful,” said Maggie, shoved forward by Violet. “I thought we could take a turn, dear aunt, and you could introduce me to more of your fine guests. Some of the men, perhaps.”

“Now, there is the spirit, my girl.” At once, Maggie’s aunt took her by the elbow and whisked her away, leaving Violet and Winny to melt or expire or whatever was least intrusive and most feminine. “Mr. Gainswell has just returned from the Indies with the most amusing stories. Have you been introduced?”

“We have,” said Maggie.

“And? Your impressions?”

The Burtons’ elegant townhouse in Mayfair was packed wall to wall, but on Auntie’s arm, the crush was navigated with ease and grace. Less busy functions were perhaps more fashionable, but their aunt enjoyed showing off just how eager society was to attend her music and poetry salons.

“He’s quite . . .” Maggie flailed for a word, not because she didn’t have any, but because any misstep would be reported to her mother. In fact, Maggie’s season had been recalled in moment-by-­moment, excruciating detail to her mother in a letter that, in Maggie’s opinion, somewhat overused words like “disaster” and “catastrophe.”