A Radical Arrangement

by Ashford, Jane

  She had resisted thinking about what she would do for as long as possible, but now, somehow, worries intruded, and she felt obliged to plan. She tried to imagine herself going on to Penzance or some other town and finding work as she had once thought to do. The vision nearly made her weep. But when she considered returning to her parents, this alternative seemed even worse. No future looked pleasant or possible, and she could not understand how this had come to be. She had always known it would not be easy to make her own way. But why had it suddenly become impossible to contemplate?

  At this stage in her meditations the image of Sir Justin Keighley usually intruded, most particularly the look on his face when he had backed away from her after their embrace. Margaret always shuddered when she thought of it and immediately forced her thoughts elsewhere. She would not think of that, though she refused to wonder why it was so painful or why the question of her future suddenly seemed so important.

  Keighley himself had a rather clearer understanding of the situation, but that did not make him any happier. On his long walks he also pondered the future and his own mental state, coming to some hard conclusions. He had known for some time that his feelings were getting out of control, and when he had, much against his better judgment and even his will, taken Margaret in his arms, warnings had sounded throughout his brain. The fact that he found holding her slender frame and stroking her silken hair very pleasant simply intensified his determination to stop.

  He had heard many stories of attachments fostered by isolation and propinquity. Matchmaking mamas often counted on it, and freedom-loving bachelors frequently lamented a month spent at the country place of such a parent—a month that ended in an offer and an announcement in the Morning Post. He knew of such a case himself, one of the most blatantly unhappy marriages in the ton.

  Thus, he was not about to be caught so. He had, he told himself, responded naturally to the unfortunate circumstance of remaining alone with a reasonably attractive young lady for a period of weeks. That this young lady had nursed him kindly and shown a gratifying susceptibility to his influence in the matter of politics had, of course, aided the process. But it was no more than that. There was no question of deep feelings or marriage. Keighley’s lips always hardened into a determined line as he thought this.

  His course now was clear. He must extricate himself from the situation with as much grace and consideration as possible, the former necessity far outweighing the latter. If the girl cut up rough… Here his thoughts jibed. Why should she? She had hated the idea of marrying him enough to run away from home.

  No, he must prepare to leave this place; that was the best solution. She could do as she pleased. He would help, of course, with money or advice, but she was not his responsibility after all. His shoulder was feeling nearly fit, and he must make plans to depart.

  He came to this conclusion on the morning following Margaret’s tears, but, curiously, he did nothing about it that day or the next. He told himself that to hurry the matter would be a clear insult and that he must smooth things over before he left, yet he made no move to do so. The two met at dinner, made some slight, stiff conversation, and parted again, neither venturing to communicate his thoughts, and the air of the Red Lion seemed to grow heavier and heavier with tension.

  Waking on the third morning, Margaret suddenly found she could stand it no longer. If she sat one more hour in the inn, she thought, she would begin to scream with vexation. She must get out, but she did not want to meet Keighley along the beach. Out of nowhere the face of Mrs. Dowling came before her. She had not seen the old woman for some time. She would go to call on her.

  With this decision came a sudden desire to confide. Margaret dressed hurriedly and ate her breakfast without knowing what it was. A desperate wish for help was building in her, but did she dare give in to it with Mrs. Dowling? And if she did, risking exposure, would it do any good?

  She found Mrs. Dowling at home, tending a great steaming kettle over the fire. For a moment after she entered the cottage her initial vision of the woman recurred. Stirring the boiling pot, Mrs. Dowling did look a great deal like a fairy-tale witch. But the illusion was broken when she pointed her long-handled spoon and said, “Blackberry jam. The berries is fine this year.”

  With a smile at her own silliness, Margaret sat down in the window seat and wondered what to say. Should she ask advice, and, if so, where should she begin? “How is your daughter?” she ventured finally.

  Mrs. Dowling looked gratified. “Carrie? She’s well. Her oldest son is getting married next week, and she’s ever so busy with that.”

  “Really? So you will be a great-grandmother soon.”

  Mrs. Dowling chuckled. “Bless you, I am that. My son in Plymouth married his daughter three years ago, and she has a girl of her own now, a strapping little lass.”

  “How strange it must be.”

  Mrs. Dowling peered at her through the blackberry steam. “Strange, miss?”

  “To have grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I can hardly imagine it.”

  “It’s not so strange. Or, if it be, the strangeness bain’t in you, if you see what I mean. I feel the same as I did when my children was small. If it weren’t for mirrors, I’d swear I was the same. It’s the world that changes.”

  Margaret pondered. “I don’t know. I feel very different lately.”

  The old woman chuckled again. “You’re young yet, miss. Wait ten years and then see.”

  Margaret sighed. Where would she be in ten years, and doing what? For a moment she envied Mrs. Dowling, who had probably never had to wonder such a thing in her life.

  “You’re looking sad, dearie,” commented the woman. “Be it your ‘brother’?”

  The way she spoke this final word made Margaret look up sharply, then slump. She tried to decide logically what she should do, but she was not feeling logical. “You’re right,” she said finally. “He isn’t my brother.”

  “Ah?”

  “He isn’t even related to me.” And, in a sudden rush, the whole story came pouring out: the dinner party and its aftermath, her parents’ reaction and her own, the flight and pursuit—everything. She spoke quickly and none too coherently, but Mrs. Dowling seemed to take it all in, nodding sagely at intervals. When at last she was done, Margaret sank back in the window seat with a great sigh. She felt an immense relief at having told someone the truth, and a tremulous hope that this might somehow make it all right.

  “What I don’t see,” said Mrs. Dowling, “is why you were so set against marrying him. He seems a likely gentleman.”

  “Well, you see,” began Margaret, “I…” She stopped, remembering clearly what she had thought of Keighley at that time. She could have recited a detailed list of his faults and heresies. Now, however, these all seemed nonsense to her. His political opinions were radical—but they had a rightness about which one could care. His personal habits and behavior had shown none of the depravity she had been led to expect. He had had more thought for propriety than she, and in spite of his brusqueness, he had been patient with her, even kind. In fact, she realized, she was convinced that her mother had been utterly mistaken about the man, if not deliberately malicious.

  Mrs. Dowling had been watching her face. Now she looked inquiring.

  “I…I thought I had good reasons,” stammered Margaret.

  “And now you don’t think so?”

  “No… That is, it does not matter in the least what I think. There is no question of marriage any longer.”

  “No?”

  “No. I told you we settled all that at once.” A memory of resting in Keighley’s arms swept suddenly over her, and Margaret trembled.

  “Seems to me that might have changed,” suggested Mrs. Dowling. “Jem Appleby claims you had a fine time out in the Gull last week. Said he thought you were sweet on each other.”

  “That’s…nonsense. He is just a boy.
He misunderstood.”

  “Happen he did.” The old woman kept her eyes on Margaret’s face. “Happen not. But why tell me all this, miss?”

  “What?”

  Mrs. Dowling merely watched her.

  Margaret avoided her eyes. There was a short silence, then the girl added, “I am very confused.”

  The other nodded.

  “We did have a good time on the picnic at first, and…and then…” She hesitated, then, with a sensation like shutting her eyes and plunging into a cold bath, she told Mrs. Dowling about their expedition in the neighborhood and its aftermath. “We have hardly spoken since,” she finished. “And I…I don’t know what to do.”

  Mrs. Dowling put down her spoon, pulled the kettle farther from the fire, and wiped her hands on her apron. She appeared to be thinking hard. “How do you feel?” she asked finally. “About the gentleman.”

  “I don’t know. Confused. Uneasy. Rather…frightened.” As she said this last, Margaret frowned. What did that mean?

  The old woman nodded slowly. She came to sit opposite Margaret in the window seat and look directly into her eyes. “You and the gentleman must have a talk,” she said. “You’ve been acting like a pair of mooning children, and you’d best stop it. Why, my Carrie would have known better when she was fifteen.”

  “I…I don’t understand.”

  “No, you don’t. It’s a scandal the way they rear you young ladies—filling your head with books and foreign talk and such, and never letting you learn what comes natural. My Carrie… Well, you don’t care for that.” She appeared to ponder again. “You go to your gentleman, straight, and ask him what he means to do.”

  “Do?”

  “About him and you.”

  “About…”

  “Lord, child, it’s plain you’re mad for each other. And he’s as noddy as you. You must tell him so.”

  “Mad for…oh, no! You’ve made a mistake. It’s nothing like that.”

  Mrs. Dowling shrugged and rose to reclaim her spoon.

  “It isn’t,” insisted Margaret.

  The woman pushed the kettle back over the fire and began to stir the jam.

  Margaret jumped up. “I am sorry I came. I hope you will keep your word and not tell anyone what I said?”

  “Aye.”

  “Thank you. I… Please pay no attention to the things I mentioned. They aren’t of the least consequence.”

  Mrs. Dowling shrugged again.

  “Good day.”

  The old woman nodded. Margaret hesitated, then turned and left the cottage.

  She fled almost blindly down the village lanes to the seawall and clung to it for a moment, staring out to sea. Huge white clouds drifted across the sky, casting moving shadows on low waves. Recalling that she was likely to encounter Keighley here, she ran along the lane to the steps leading to the beach and was soon crouched by the pool in her old place. Hidden by the foliage there, she put her head in her arms and gave herself up to confusion.

  It was nearly half an hour before she straightened again and took several deep breaths. The sound of trickling water in the quiet had soothed her, and she felt more able to think. Though it was nearly time for luncheon, she did not move. She wasn’t hungry.

  Mrs. Dowling’s words echoed in her head. The idea was totally ridiculous, of course, but why, then, did it arouse such violent emotions? She should laugh, Margaret thought, at the mere suggestion that she and Keighley were “mad for” each other; instead she trembled with…with what? It could not be fear. She knew that she no longer harbored her misguided terror of the man.

  Painstakingly she went back over everything that had occurred between them, from the beginning, and examined her reactions in each case. When she came to his embrace, she started to tremble violently again, and this time it was clear that it was due to a combination of excitement and uncertainty. She had enjoyed that closeness, she admitted, and she longed to know if Keighley felt the same.

  His expression as he drew away from her rose vividly before her again. He had not enjoyed it. He had been appalled; it was only too obvious. And Margaret now realized that her response to his hurried withdrawal had been disappointment and chagrin. She had wanted to remain in his arms, to discover more about the new sensations wakening in her body.

  Rubbing her eyes with one hand, Margaret gave in. Mrs. Dowling was right. Somehow, ironically, she had fallen in love with Justin Keighley. How her mother would gloat over that. But he had not been subject to the same capricious fate. He saw her precisely as he always had, as a tiresome problem that must be solved.

  For some time Margaret felt sorry for herself. It seemed so terribly unfair that she should suffer unrequited love for a man she had once fled in disgust. And that he should be absolutely unaffected. Mrs. Dowling had said that one remained the same while the world changed, but Margaret felt exactly the opposite. She had changed beyond recognition, but the world continued unaltered.

  When she had brought herself close to tears with these lugubrious ruminations, Margaret suddenly remembered another kind of moment—during their picnic when Keighley asked about Philip Manningham. And with that recollection came a number of others. She chewed her thumbnail and reviewed them. Was it possible that Sir Justin was not so oblivious as he might wish? Could he have been appalled not by their embrace but by his own feelings during it? Margaret hardly dared hope, but more and more memories came now to support that conclusion. She could easily believe that Sir Justin would resist falling in love with her, for a variety of reasons. She had done the same herself. But if he was doing so, and was not simply indifferent, he must be made to stop.

  With this thought, Margaret rose and began pacing beside her pool. Once she would have been too diffident to contemplate what now ran through her mind, but that seemed years ago. If there was the least chance of success, she was ready to fight for what she wanted. Sir Justin could refuse to love her, but he could not do so without facing her and saying it. And she had the feeling that denial would be difficult in those circumstances. Margaret smiled. If he thought he could simply continue to avoid her, and then slip away without ever having dealt with this question, he was quite wrong.

  Resolved, she shook out her skirts and started to walk back toward the Red Lion. How was her plan best accomplished? she wondered. Keighley was probably out now, and in any case she did not feel ready to face him yet. She would wait until the evening. Yes. They met automatically at dinner; she would do it then. And perhaps there were some steps she could take to make it easier.

  She smiled again—a smile that her mother would have found alarmingly alien—and tossed her head. She saw how it could be managed. It would be wholly unexpected too, and that was a great advantage. She took a little skipping step and bounded up the seawall steps. Tonight could be glorious, but there was much to do first.

  Fourteen

  After making certain arrangements with Mrs. Appleby, Margaret returned to her bedchamber and took stock. The dinner would be good—Sir Justin approved of Mrs. Appleby’s cooking—so she need concern herself only with her own appearance. But this was not an insignificant problem. She was heartily sick of the three gowns she had brought, and though she had not thought much about it before, she now realized that her efforts at hairdressing left much to be desired. Even after all this time she had still not become as skilled as her maid at home.

  A small mirror hung above her washstand, and she went to peer into it. She could hardly see anything. Margaret stood back. There was a much larger glass in Keighley’s room, she knew. Did she dare try to bring it here? He was probably out, but how could she be sure? She did not want to meet him before she was ready.

  Going to the door, she opened it a crack and listened. Though there were sounds of activity downstairs, the first floor of the inn was silent and Keighley’s bedroom door was open. He must be out. Margaret slipped into the hall and mov
ed quietly down it, stopping to listen again at intervals. When she reached Keighley’s chamber, she paused, then slowly peered around the corner to make sure it was empty. Yes. She hurried in, picked up the full-length mirror that stood on oak legs in the corner, and lugged it out to the corridor. It was heavier than she had expected, and she had to put it down for a moment there. But she waited only to catch her breath before trying again, with a better grip. It was awkward, but she could manage it.

  She was almost to her own room when a deep voice from the direction of the stairs said, “Can I help, miss?”

  Margaret nearly dropped the mirror; she craned her neck to find Mr. Appleby standing on the landing and looking through the stair rail at her. He seemed puzzled. “I…I wanted to use this mirror,” she gasped. “The one in my room is so small.”

  The innkeeper came up the remaining steps. “To be sure it is, miss. We should have thought. Mr. Camden doesn’t use that glass, and a young lady is likely to want one. Let me take it for you.” He lifted the mirror easily and carried it into Margaret’s room. “I’ll set it right here in the corner, under the window.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And shall I take the small one to the other bedroom? I reckon your brother can use it for shaving.”

  “Yes, but don’t mention that I…I mean…he teases me so about being vain.”

  Appleby grinned. “I won’t say a word, miss. Or, if he asks, I’ll say the wife decided to move the furniture about. She often does.”

  Margaret could not help returning his smile. “Thank you.”

  Nodding, he went out. “You must tell us when there’s something you’d like, miss. We’re only too happy.”

  Thanking him again, Margaret shut the door and sank down on her bed. Her heart was still hammering. When Appleby had first spoken, she had been sure it was Keighley. Now she took several deep breaths and gradually calmed. All this fuss over a mirror.