Page 20

Tom sighed and strode forward. Wherever he had been, he was in a much better state; he leaned down and scooped Bridgers up easily, kissing his forehead. “Come on. Mags, you going to be all right alone?”

She waved him off, pleased to see how Bridgers was melting into Tom’s arms. “Always. Don’worry about me.”

Tom paused, a fully grown man cradled in his arms, and shook his head. “I’ll worry about you all I like,” he said. “I’m putting this one to sleep and then coming back out here and we’re talking.”

The gin sloshed in Maggie’s stomach as she lay down where Bridgers had vacated, putting a hand over her eyes. It couldn’t be any later than supper, but she was giving careful consideration to falling asleep for the night here.

The soft sounds of the boys’ voices carried through the air, sinking into her foggy mind. Tom’s tone was low and soothing; Bridgers’ was stilted, choked with tears. She heard the bed groan under Tom’s weight and imagined him climbing in next to Bridge, trying to make him feel safe. Her eyes welled again and she rubbed them irritably. There was nothing to cry about, and it was a waste of energy. Wasn’t that what Papa had always said?

The door to their bedroom shut carefully, and Tom padded back to the drawing room. “Maggie.”

She dropped her arm and squinted at him. “Hullo, Tom.” There. That sounded clear enough. Tom squatted next to her slowly, eyeing her. “What’s happened? Bridgers is convinced I’m going to leave, and you never get this drunk.”

She scrubbed her face with her hands. “I had a bad night with Louise Barrow, and Bridgers wanted to talk about your argument.” She winced. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. But he was so upset.”

“You aren’t intruding.” Tom stood, taking her empty glass and setting it on the bookshelf next to them. He sat beside her head, putting a large hand on her forehead. “What happened with Louise Barrow?”

“She’s a stuffy bitch who hates us for no reason.” She closed her eyes and relaxed under Tom’s hand. “Is Bridgers all right?”

“If he survives tomorrow morning. We’ll talk then.” Tom paused. “I think that putting down roots here will help us in many ways, Mags. I love you both, but it can’t continue just being just the three of us. It isn’t healthy, I think.” He moved his hand off her forehead and rubbed the back of her right hand soothingly. “We need more than that. What if you meet someone?”

Maggie’s laugh took her by surprise. “Tom, I’ll never meet someone. I tried that once and you know how that went.” How it went was a month-long courtship had led to three unremarkable visits to his father’s stables under the cover of night, where Maggie learned that the sexual act was overrated and bothersome. She had been relieved when Aaron had told her that his family wanted him to marry the minister’s daughter and they parted ways, him off to the loving arms of his fiancée, and her with the gratitude of an ignorant woman who had avoided pregnancy.

“Why do you think Miss Barrow dislikes us?” Tom was keeping his eyes on Maggie’s forehead, avoiding her gaze, and her hackles raised immediately.

“Why does it matter? What does that have to do with the subject at hand?”

Tom pulled his hand back to his lap. “You seem to be forging quite the friendship with the butcher.”

Suddenly startlingly sober, Maggie shot up on the divan, tipping over slightly. “That isn’t illegal.” What? “It’s not a crime,” she clarified, unnecessarily. Oh no. Her abrupt sobriety had been a lie.

Tom’s expression didn’t change. “Surely enough. I’m just wondering what’s going on.”

She shrugged in what she hoped was a casual manner. “Nothing. We’re friends. We’re friendly.”

“Friendly.”

“Yes,” she snipped. “Friendly. I know we’re lacking in the department, but surely you’re familiar with the concept.”

Thomas Murray was many things but easily offended was not one of them. Whereas Bridgers might have been theatrically wounded by such a thorny jab, Tom only smiled: he knew what her prickliness generally masked. “Oh, you do like him.”

She scoffed (she tried to scoff; it sounded like a strangled, phlegmy bark). “Don’t be ridiculous. Men and women are permitted to be on friendly terms.”

“He’s quite good-looking, you know.”

“Do you think so?” One second too late, Maggie jerked her head up and glared at Tom. His smirk had taken on an unholy glee. “Oh, fuck off.”

“I most certainly will not.” Tom stretched out on the divan, crossing his ankles. “Perhaps it’s time for you to consider what you want from your future, Maggie.”

His conversational tone made her squirm. “In what way? I thought you and Bridge had already decided that we’re going to be haberdashers.”

Tom shook his head. “That’s what Bridgers and I are planning, love. You aren’t obligated to stay here and help. You aren’t obligated to do anything at all.”

She groaned. “You want to marry me off to the butcher. Get rid of me once and for all.”

“Magdalene.” He sighed. “This isn’t a good time. You’ve been drinking and I know how foul a mood Bridgers can put you in when he’s broody. But I love you and don’t want you to feel stuck.”

She opened one eye. “Do you feel stuck?”