After a while she rose and went to look at herself. This glass was good—she could see her whole figure—and the reflection it gave back startled Margaret considerably. She had known her appearance had changed. The fit of her dresses and her small mirror had told her that. But she had not quite realized the extent of the alteration until now. She turned this way and that, surveying herself from all angles. Not only was her figure fuller and more rounded, but her shoulders were straighter and she moved differently. She could not decide just how. There was a new springiness in her step and fluidity in her motion. Her face looked different too. It was slightly fuller, so that her eyes no longer seemed too large for it, and her formerly pale cheeks glowed with color. But her hair—Margaret put a hand to the fine blond curls—that was much the same. Something must be done there.
Her gaze shifted to her white muslin gown, and she made a wry face. She never wished to see this dress again, or the blue or the pink, but she would have to wear one of them tonight. She took the other two from the wardrobe and held them up one by one before her. It hardly mattered, but she supposed the pink looked best.
There was a tap on her door, and one of the younger Appleby girls called, “Miss? I’ve filled the bath as you wanted.”
“Thank you.” Putting the dresses on the bed, Margaret gathered her things and went to have a hot bath, thinking that at least some luxuries remained to her.
* * *
At six, she stood before the long mirror once again, checking her appearance one last time before going downstairs. It was still quite light, but she had also lit two candles to see the effect. The pink dress was all right; it was clean, at least, and fit her better than it ever had. The plain, round-necked bodice and puffed sleeves set off her newly rounded arms and shoulders, and the color intensified hers. But Margaret’s main attention was to her hair. She had worked on it for nearly an hour, and she was pleased with the results. She had gathered it in a knot on top of her head, with curls falling over her ears and forehead. It was a style she had never worn before, and she thought it became her.
She had also, for the first time, opened the little casket of jewelry she had packed, which had miraculously survived its accident on the road and subsequent rescue. Most things, like her pearls, did not suit the dress or the occasion—she did not want to alert Keighley to her purpose—but she had brought a pair of tiny silver earrings ornamented with a single drop of opal, and these she fastened in her ears. They caught the candlelight beautifully and, she thought, gave her head a much more elegant appearance.
Margaret took a breath, shook out her skirts, and snuffed the candles. She was ready. She had heard Sir Justin go down a few minutes before, and she followed him with a beating heart but, she hoped, an impassive expression.
He awaited her in the back parlor, where the table was set as usual for dinner. He was sitting in an armchair reading a newspaper, a habit he had taken up in the last few days, and she did not attempt to interrupt but merely said good evening and sat down. A few minutes later Annie Appleby came in with a steaming crock of soup, and they began to eat.
“Did you have a pleasant day?” asked Margaret.
“Yes, thank you.”
“You went walking?”
“Along the shore, yes.” He looked directly at her for the first time that evening, his expression showing puzzlement. Margaret had not been talking much in the last two days, and something else, which he could not pin down, seemed different.
“It was a lovely day for it. I was out also for a while.”
He nodded as Annie removed the soup plates and set down fresh crockery. She served them both with roast chicken, new potatoes, and fresh peas, then went out. Keighley began to eat, only to pause in surprise when the girl returned with a bottle of wine and poured out two glasses. “What’s this?” he asked.
Margaret smiled. “Mrs. Appleby thought we should celebrate, since you are so much better.” This was not strictly true. The wine had been Margaret’s suggestion and rather difficult to procure, but Mrs. Appleby was primed to support her if necessary.
“I see.”
She picked up her glass, hoping that her almost complete inexperience of wine did not show, and said, “To your continued health,” sipping a little.
Keighley raised one black eyebrow but drank. “Thank you. And, speaking of my health, it is so much improved that we should think of leaving here.”
“Yes,” replied Margaret agreeably. “You must get back to your estate. I daresay they have been worried about you.”
“I sent a letter yesterday. Jem carried it to Falmouth, to a trustworthy man he knows there. It should reach my butler without revealing our direction.”
She swallowed a bite of chicken that had nearly choked her. “Ah. You did not tell me.” Things were not going exactly as she had planned.
“No.” Keighley drank more wine. He felt he should have told her, but he had not been able to find a time that seemed good. Indeed, now that he had raised the subject of leaving, he wished he hadn’t. Why had he felt compelled to ruin their dinner when Margaret was looking so… Harshly cutting off this errant thought, he added, “We might think of going at the end of the week.”
Margaret nodded absently, causing Sir Justin to clutch the stem of his wineglass so tightly his knuckles whitened. She noticed his reaction with joy.
“Where do you intend to go?” he asked.
She smiled and shrugged slightly, watching his eyes.
“You do not mean to tell me?”
“After all, it can be no concern of yours.”
“No concern?” he began hotly, but Annie returned just then with a dish of pudding and set it on the table.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked.
“No,” snapped Keighley, and the girl went out with a startled glance at him over her shoulder. “Now, listen to me,” he continued.
Margaret interrupted him. “You know, I have been thinking a good deal since our visit to those people.”
Sir Justin stiffened. Was the girl about to throw his behavior in his face? That would get her nowhere.
“And reading too,” she added, which was true. She had spent two hours with the book on reform that afternoon. “I find my opinions are greatly changed.”
This was not what he had expected. “Do you?”
“Yes. Since I have seen how people really live, I agree with many of the proposals in the book you lent me. You know that I thought them extreme at first. Now I don’t.”
He merely watched her, bemused.
“It seems to me that half measures are dreadful. They raise people’s hopes but accomplish so little.”
“That may be true. But they can be gotten through, and at least that little accomplished. If one insists upon sweeping reform, nothing is done.”
“Yes, I see. But it is so hard to think of those families we saw, and the others you tell me are all over England. They will not be affected by small reforms. They will continue to suffer.” She gazed intensely into his eyes.
“That is one of the infuriating things about politics,” he agreed, meeting her eyes. “I found it nearly insupportable when I first began. But gradually one comes to see that one must simply do what one can. Sulking over impossibilities helps no one.” He smiled a little. “I know. I did it for a year when I was twenty.”
Margaret sternly controlled her answering smile. She did not want to interrupt a process that was going so well. “It is the children I cannot forget,” she went on. “I pity the adults, of course, but the children could do so much if they had the opportunity.”
Margaret leaned forward again, bringing her face closer to his across the table, and added, “I want so to help, you see. For the last two days I have thought and thought what I might do. But I feel so powerless. I cannot stand for Parliament or make speeches or influence those who run the government. No o
ne would listen to me. Yet I must do something. I cannot remain idle after what you have shown me.”
“I believe you are serious,” replied Sir Justin, his eyes on hers.
“I am. Completely.” And, indeed, Margaret was not fabricating this part of her appeal. She had felt an impulse to help the people she had seen, and she would do so if a way was offered.
Keighley’s hazel eyes softened. “There are things you can do. For example, a friend of mine, Lady Noonham, has started a series of charity schools for the children of laborers, particularly in the North, where the factories are increasing every day. They are educated so that they can do better than their parents.”
“That is a splendid idea,” exclaimed Margaret sincerely.
“She is always looking for contributions.”
“Money, you mean?”
“Yes. There is never enough for such work.”
“Well, I would be happy to give her whatever I can, but I want to do something myself.”
Keighley looked puzzled.
“I want to see the people, to be with those children…and to work with them myself.” As she spoke Margaret realized that her words were no more than the truth. The children she had seen haunted her, particularly the first little girl and boy. She could still see their eyes, shadowed by fear and ignorance, very clearly.
“You don’t know what you’re proposing,” answered Sir Justin. “You have had a small taste of dirt and poverty, but that is quite different from facing it often or in larger concentrations, such as one finds in London.”
“I know it must be. And perhaps I should not be able to endure it and would fail. But I am determined to try.” Looking down, and partly forgetting her purpose tonight, Margaret repeated, “Determined. I will find a means.” It suddenly occurred to her that here was a focus for her future. Whatever happened, she would retain this interest, and it would sustain and fire her. She raised her head and met Keighley’s dark eyes with a new light in her own. She had set out to do one thing this evening and, in the process, discovered another.
“I believe you will,” he said, impressed. His hand moved involuntarily to cover hers on the table; he was entranced by the fire and spirit that illuminated her as she spoke.
Though she pretended not to notice, Margaret’s heart began to pound. “What a feeling it must be, to really help.”
“I have been told so.”
“But you have felt it. You have worked for the same cause.”
He shrugged. “With members of Parliament, factory owners, the Prince. It is all talk and most often useless.”
“I don’t believe that for an instant.”
He smiled wryly. “Well, it is hardly as satisfying as what you propose.”
“Indeed not, and it must therefore be all the harder. I could never keep up such a thankless struggle, and I admire you for being able to. I daresay you will be the one who makes real reform possible one day.”
“We are working on a bill…” He broke off with a short laugh. “But you are merely being polite.”
“I am not! I do admire your work. It must require immense patience and will. You fight for what you believe in. What more could anyone do?”
His grip on her hand tightened, and his eyes showed a sudden vulnerability. It was seldom he heard words like these. Most of his acquaintances and even friends mocked or criticized his efforts.
“I only hope I can be like you,” she added.
“You exaggerate.”
“I don’t think so,” she said softly. She had seen the look in his eyes, and been deeply touched by it. “I think perhaps you are the most admirable man I know.” Slowly she stood and moved around the table, leaving her hand in his. When she stood beside him, she said, “Thank you for showing me…everything.”
He gazed up at her and, in one blinding instant, saw that what he had been fighting for the past week was not the mere influence of propinquity but something much stronger and more permanent. He also stood, towering over her. “You have shown me a good deal as well.”
Margaret smiled. “Have I? I can’t imagine what.”
“Can’t you?” He released her hand and slid his arms about her waist, unsure how she would respond. A tiny part of him shrilled one last warning, which he rejected with disdain. “Can’t you, indeed?”
Her heart beating wildly, Margaret put one hand on his upper arm, then the other. As he pulled her slowly closer to him she moved her hands up and around his neck. She was trembling. It was the oddest sensation to tilt her lips gradually toward his, both like and unlike the other time he had held her.
Sir Justin bent his head and kissed her, softly and lightly. His arms tightened, and he did it again, more passionately. Margaret, astonished by a flood of powerful new feelings, pressed her body against his. She felt as if her bones were melting. They kissed a third time, and Margaret’s last hesitancy disappeared in the heat of their embrace. Keighley’s hands wandered up her back and then down in a lingering caress, and with an answering passion.
At last he raised his head again and looked at her.
“Oh, my,” breathed Margaret.
He laughed. “May I take that as a favorable judgment?”
She nodded, wide-eyed. “It is just so new to me, you know.”
A flicker of concern passed over his face. “I should not have—”
“Can we try it again?” she interrupted, pulling a little at his neck.
He laughed again. “I doubt that that is wise.”
“Oh, wise.” Margaret was contemptuous. “All my life I did what was wise and proper. Until I met you, that is. I like the new way much better.”
Their eyes met in a warm smile, and he bent to kiss her a fourth time.
Margaret was just giving herself up wholly to the embrace when the parlor door burst open so violently that it slammed back against the wall. “So,” shouted the man who stood in the opening. “Just as I expected. Blackguard. Villain. Ravisher.” He turned his head a little. “And you—baggage—where are your principles, your moral scruples, that I find you so?”
They had separated at the first sound. Now Margaret put a hand to her mouth. “Papa,” she gasped.
Fifteen
The shouting lasted nearly an hour, accomplishing nothing. First Mr. Mayfield shouted, then Margaret, goaded by his unfair accusations, joined him, and finally Sir Justin could contain himself no longer and added his voice to theirs. They none of them listened to one another, and it was only when they became aware of the astonished faces of the Appleby family in the corridor outside the parlor that they quieted a bit.
“I shall require a room for the night,” Mr. Mayfield told his hosts. “That is all. You needn’t gape.”
“Th-this is my father,” put in Margaret.
“Aye,” agreed Mr. Appleby. “We gathered as much. And not the gentleman’s father, I take it?”
“N-no.”
“I was adopted,” suggested Keighley. Margaret was so startled she almost giggled. The Applebys looked unimpressed.
“Get out, get out,” exclaimed Mayfield impatiently, moving to shut the door. “We’ll ring if we want anything.”
“There is no need to be so rude, Father,” said Margaret when the door was closed. “The Applebys have been very good to us…to me, I mean.”
“Rude? If you think I can bother with politeness at a moment like this…” He paused to catch his breath.
“Perhaps I should leave the two of you to talk?” offered Keighley. Both Margaret and Mr. Mayfield stared at him, Mayfield with outrage and Margaret with puzzlement. The truth was that Sir Justin felt the need for a respite, a moment to think before he confronted the situation. When neither answered him, he nodded briefly and left the room.
“Well,” breathed Mayfield.
“Father, what are you doing here?” Margaret was more angr
y than chagrined at her father’s arrival and his wild accusations. Things had been going wonderfully until he came, and now all was confusion again.
“How can you ask me that? My only daughter runs away from my home—”
“And you let her. Leaving her to make her way as best she can for weeks.”
“That was not my idea. I wished to go after you at once. Your mother… Well, that is by the by. In any case, once I began to search, it was by no means easy to find you.”
“How did you?”
“I searched and inquired in Penzance and then in other towns thereabouts. A doctor in Falmouth finally gave me news of you.”
“Ah. Dr. Brice. I am not surprised.”
“Are you not, indeed? And I suppose you are also unmoved by the fact that we have been worrying about you for weeks? Your mother is prostrate. You could not spare a moment to send us word, I suppose, here in your love nest?”
“Oh, take a damper, Papa,” answered Margaret impatiently.
Mr. Mayfield gaped at her like a beached fish.
“In the first place, it is not a ‘love nest.’ What a ridiculous idea. We are here only while Sir Justin recovers from his wound. And in the second place, I did not send word because I did not think you wished to hear and because I did not want you descending upon me—as you have done.”
“Did not…”
“You made no effort to help or understand me when I asked it, Papa. Why should I have turned to you?”
“What has happened to you, Margaret? You are…so different. He has corrupted you.”
“Nonsense!”
Mr. Mayfield gaped again. His daughter had never spoken to him in this tone and had certainly never labeled anything he chose to say to her as nonsense.
“Nothing in particular has happened to me except perhaps that I have grown up a bit. I have merely been staying in this inn helping to nurse Sir Justin. He is nearly well now, and—”
A Radical Arrangement Page 14
