“What was the matter with Keighley? How was he wounded? Dr. Brice mentioned it as well.”
For the first time Margaret felt uneasy. “Well, you see, Papa, I…I shot him.”
“You…” Mr. Mayfield put out a shaking hand and found a chair back. Supporting himself upon it, he staggered around to sit down. “I cannot have heard you correctly.”
Margaret grimaced. “I’m afraid you did. It is rather complicated. I thought he was chasing me to force me to marry him, so when he came up, I…shot him. I had taken your pistol.”
“My…” He was staring at her as if she had suddenly sprouted horns.
“Yes. I haven’t lost it. It’s upstairs.”
Her father simply continued to stare.
“And so you see that I had to stay and make certain he was all right. I could not leave him bleeding in the road. The Applebys helped me, and we had the doctor, of course. Oh, and Mrs. Dowling. She is the one who really saved him. I don’t know what we should have done without her.” Margaret moved a little uncomfortably under her father’s astounded gaze.
“And?” he said finally.
“And that is all. Sir Justin is better now, and…”
“Exactly. Now what?”
Margaret looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean what is your explanation for the way I found you when I came here tonight? Is that your idea of nursing?”
“N-no.” She stopped, at a loss. If he had only delayed his entrance a few minutes, she thought resentfully, she might have been able to tell him what came next. As it was, she wasn’t sure.
“If that is the sort of goings on…”
“It isn’t. It never happened before.”
“I see.” Mayfield brightened a little. “Perhaps you are about to tell me that you and Sir Justin are engaged? That the highly unusual circumstances have led to an attachment—”
“No,” interrupted Margaret baldly. She could not say that, though she wished she could.
“You were behaving in that scandalous way with a man to whom you are not engaged? Margaret, I am deeply shocked.” He looked it. “How could you do so? And why?” He shook his head. “You told us you hated the man. What has happened to you?”
Margaret looked at the floor. She felt wholly incapable of explaining herself to her father. He would never understand her feelings or her actions. And the one horrid gap in any explanation—the future—loomed large and blank.
“Margaret,” repeated Mayfield appealingly. She saw now that he looked tired and sad.
“I…I can’t talk now,” she blurted out. “I will see you in the morning.” And before he could speak again, she ran from the room.
The rest of the inn was quiet. Margaret hurried up the stairs and down the corridor to Keighley’s room. If she could just see him for a moment, perhaps all could be settled. But his bedchamber was empty; there was no sign he had been there since dinner. Frustrated, she went to her own room and locked the door. Where could he have gone? And what was he thinking?
The answer to that question would not have pleased Margaret overmuch. Sir Justin was walking along the seawall in the moonlight and thinking that he was a fool. The arrival of Ralph Mayfield had brought back all his former doubts. He remembered how he despised Margaret’s family and all their circle, and the anger and repulsion he had felt when her mother had tried to force him into marriage. He recalled his first impression of Margaret herself. She had changed, yes, but could that cowering simpleton really have become the kind of woman with whom he wished to spend his life? Out here, away from her, it seemed impossible. He must have been drunk, to behave as he had tonight, and so must she. It occurred to him now that the chit was probably not accustomed to wine. He did not choose to remember that the small amount he had had could not possibly have addled his wits.
What worried him most was the question of the future. It was obvious what Mayfield would expect and demand, but what of his daughter? Would she come to her senses, as he had, and be horrified at what had passed between them? Once, she had repudiated marriage as vehemently as he. Yet the way she had yielded to his caresses suggested that this attitude might have changed. And if she now took his offer for granted, what would he do? To draw back after tonight was dishonorable, but to be trapped into marriage in such a way—without thought or preparation—galled him. He would not be ruled by the father’s threats or the daughter’s tears.
By this time Keighley had worked himself into a quite unwarranted state of righteous indignation. With the advent of Mayfield, he suddenly saw not the Margaret he had held this evening but the chit he had angrily come after weeks ago. Unreasonably he blamed everything on her. He would not marry such a woman, whatever they might think. He would apologize for his behavior tonight as abjectly as they pleased, but no one else knew of it, so it could not compromise the girl. Her father could take her home again, and everything could be forgotten. And perhaps, after some time had elapsed, he could even see her again… He thrust that thought quickly away.
Having decided, Keighley felt better, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He turned back toward the Red Lion, walking slowly, and rehearsed the calm, measured speech he would use to explain his position to both Mayfields. Perhaps it would not be so difficult as he imagined. Perhaps Margaret would even take his side once the cold light of morning had dissipated the fumes of alcohol.
At the door of the inn he straightened his shoulders, took a breath, and strode in. He hoped everyone was in bed, but such luck could not be counted on. And, indeed, the first thing he saw was Ralph Mayfield’s head peering around the door of the back parlor. “Keighley,” he exclaimed, “I want to talk to you.”
His jaw hardening, Sir Justin joined him.
Mayfield shut the door. “Margaret has told me some of what happened,” he continued. “It is a very odd story. I should like to hear your version.”
“I am sure it is the same as hers.”
“Because you have rehearsed her in it?”
Keighley stiffened. “Because there is no need to tell anything but the truth, Mr. Mayfield.”
“Ah, the truth.”
Their eyes locked in hostility.
“Precisely. Your wife maneuvered me into this ill-starred adventure, and I have carried on as best I could.”
The older man looked away. “I have spoken to her about that. I do not at all approve what she did, and she regrets it bitterly, you may be sure.”
“As do I.” He put a hand to his injured shoulder.
“Did Margaret actually shoot you?”
“She did.”
“I wouldn’t have thought her capable. But even given that, why did you not send for someone? Me—or one of your own people, at least?”
“I was unconscious for some time. When I recovered, I found that your daughter had spread the story that we were brother and sister, and had been attacked by highwaymen. I could only go along with her unless I wished to start a scandal that was likely to spread far beyond this village. And I was in no state to make other arrangements for a long while, I assure you.”
“Hah.” Mayfield looked tired. “Well, that is all done with now. I am more interested in what you plan for the future.”
“I? Why, to return home now that I am recovered.”
“That is all?”
Keighley nodded, bracing himself for what was sure to come.
“And what of Margaret?”
“She will go home with you, I suppose.”
“And we simply forget this happened. Is that it?”
“Exactly. Nothing, after all, has happened.”
“Do you call the scene I walked in on tonight nothing?”
“It was unfortunate, but…”
“Un…” Mayfield clenched his fists. “Perhaps in the circles you frequent such immorality is merely
‘unfortunate.’ I, and my friends, do not view it so.”
“No doubt.”
“Is this to be your attitude? You do not, then, intend to marry my daughter?”
“I do not!”
“You…you…”
“Never mind, Papa.” Unnoticed by the two men in their rage, Margaret had opened the door and was standing just inside it. She wore her blue dressing gown, which molded to her body in soft folds, and her blond hair was hanging in loose waves over her shoulders. She was trembling but this was not evident from across the room. “Sir Justin has made himself very clear. Indeed, I daresay his position is clear to the whole inn. I could hear you both from upstairs. Let us stop broadcasting our affairs, especially since the matter is settled. There is nothing further to say.” Her lower lip started to tremble and she pressed her lips together firmly. She wasn’t thinking; she was merely reacting, with all the dignity she could muster, to intolerable circumstances. She had obviously made a dreadful mistake with Sir Justin. The thing to do now was to escape as soon as possible. “You look exhausted, Papa,” she added. “Come upstairs with me. Mrs. Appleby has prepared her last bedchamber for you.”
“Margaret, we cannot leave things as they are,” responded her father cholerically. He turned to glare at Keighley, whose eyes were fixed on Margaret.
Sir Justin did not notice. He was transfixed by the overwhelming realization that he had made yet another idiotic mistake, and by astonishment at his own newly acquired ineptitude. He had never been so clumsy before. But now, because of his silly meditations and decisions by the shore, he had hurt Margaret terribly. He could see this as if she were transparent. And in doing so, he had finally understood that she was the last person he would wish to hurt. Recent events and conversations had resurfaced, to obliterate his memories of earlier times, and he knew once and for all that he loved her. Ironically, this certainty came just when he had probably lost her forever. Why had he blurted out his stupid refusal for all the inn to hear? Why had he not first discussed the matter with her privately? Common courtesy would have demanded that, after what had passed between them tonight, regardless of his decision.
Keighley ran a hand over his forehead. Mayfield had made him furious, and he had let his temper speak for him, like a fool.
“Father, please,” said Margaret. “I really do not want—cannot support—further discussion of this tonight. Let us go to bed.”
“But, Margaret…”
“He does not wish to marry me, Papa,” she cried. “And…and I do not wish to marry him. So that is that.”
“But what about…”
“May I just say…” began Keighley.
Ralph Mayfield turned on him with burning eyes. “You, be quiet, sir. You have no right to say anything, after the way you have behaved.”
“I am trying to tell you that—”
“Please stop,” cried Margaret. “I really cannot bear any more.” She shook her head as if to clear it, her blond curls falling over her face. Sir Justin felt an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. “I am going up to bed. I don’t wish to see anyone before morning. And you should do the same, both of you.” With a sound that might have been a gasp or a sob, Margaret fled.
“See what you have done,” accused Mayfield petulantly.
“You were as much at fault,” replied Sir Justin, stung.
“I? You, sir, have ruined my daughter’s life.”
“I would say you and your wife did that when you tried to force her to marry in the first place.”
“You dare to blame us? I suppose it is our fault that Margaret was kept here, at the mercy of your base desires, that she has become so corrupted as to submit to your embraces and not demand marriage, to be so sullied and degraded—”
“She is no such thing, you old fool.”
Ralph Mayfield, pushed beyond endurance by fatigue, emotion, and frustration, stepped quickly forward and landed a highly inexpert punch on Keighley’s left cheekbone. Sir Justin, a superb boxer, merely jerked his head with the blow and remained standing. When Mayfield attempted another swipe, Keighley sidestepped. But his rage was boiling up, and he realized that if he remained in the room, he might well indulge in the exquisite pleasure and relief of beating the older man within an inch of his life. As this was clearly out of the question, he backed toward the door, saying, “You are overwrought, Mayfield. Get a grip on yourself. We will talk again in the morning. I have been hasty. Perhaps—”
“Coward. Poltroon. Come here where I can reach you.” Mayfield swung widely and nearly fell over.
Sir Justin clenched his fists so tightly he felt a twinge in his shoulder, pressed his lips together to stay a blistering retort, and strode out of the room and the inn. Mayfield, left alone, picked up a chair and hurled it against the wall before sinking into another and putting his head in his arms.
Keighley practically ran down the village streets to the sea. He was filled with pent-up emotion—rage at Mayfield and himself, regret, love—and could not stay still. He felt, indeed, as if he would burst unless he found a way to release it. He pounded a fist on the stone seawall, again pulling his nearly healed shoulder, and began to stride along it at a furious pace.
When he came to the curve on the north side of the village, he could see its fleet of boats docked a little farther on, and among them was Jem Appleby’s Gull. Fixing it with an intent gaze, Keighley began to make his way down to the docks. He would take it out. It was just the sort of foolhardy, physically taxing exploit he wanted to recover his equanimity. It would be hard sailing with one weak arm, and he welcomed the difficulty—exulted in it.
Margaret, who sat at her window watching clouds race across the moon, glimpsed the little boat as it put out into the bay. But she was too miserable even to wonder who could be sailing so late. Tears trickled down her cheeks, to be wiped away with the sleeve of her dressing gown, and she could think of nothing but Keighley’s implacable tone when he had said he did not intend to marry her.
Sixteen
Margaret did not sleep much that night. She continued to sit in her window and, unknowing, watched a storm blow up over the bay below. First the clouds thickened over the moon as it moved down the sky, finally obscuring it completely, then the wind swooped down and bent the flowering shrubs of the village. At last, just before Margaret retreated to her bed for a few hours, a fitful rain began, blown in sputters against the window glass.
Lying down, she listened. The only sound was the rain; no one moved about the inn. An aching regret filled the last moments before she slept.
She woke early, to an overcast sky and a steady downpour. She rose and dressed and paced about her room for a while, uneasy about going downstairs. Would the morning be a repetition of last night? It was dreadful to hear her father and Sir Justin quarreling so bitterly. The thought of Sir Justin made her shy away again, as she had all night, from examination of her feelings. It was no good thinking; everything had been settled, and there was no more she could do.
In this mood she went down to the parlor and sat at the breakfast table. No one else was about. One of the younger Appleby girls brought tea, and Margaret poured herself a strong cup. What was to be done today? She must face her father, of course. He would urge her to come home with him. Sipping her tea, she shook her head. She could not go back there now; too much had changed. But what would she do?
She had not come to any conclusion when her father came in, still looking tired. She gave him tea, which he drank gratefully, and wondered to herself at how old he looked. She had not noticed before that he was aging.
“Where is Keighley?” he asked when he had finished his tea. He had the air of a man girding for battle.
“I don’t know, Papa.”
“Still asleep, I suppose. His sort never rises before noon. And a little thing like a girl’s ruin would hardly disturb his customary rest.”
“Oh, Papa, I wish—”
“Do not say, ‘Oh, Papa,’ to me, Margaret. I have come to the conclusion that your wits are addled by the trying experiences you have endured. I mean to save you from yourself.”
His dismissive tone aroused a spark of anger, which served to lessen Margaret’s melancholy. “My wits are better than they ever were,” she replied. “And I wish you will not interfere—”
“Interfere? I am your father, Margaret. I am responsible for you, and I intend to see you righted.”
She raised her eyebrows. “How, Papa?”
“What?”
“How do you plan to do that? I know what you think is right, but Sir Justin has said he will not marry, and I…I have agreed. There is nothing you can do.”
Her father seemed to swell with rage. “I can have the law on him if necessary.”
“I am sure you would not disgrace me in that way.”
“Well, I—I—”
“Really, there is nothing more to be done. I think you should go, Papa.”
“Go? Home, you mean? I shall not leave this place without you.”
Meeting his eyes, Margaret saw that he meant it. How was she to argue with this determination, particularly when she was not certain of her own plans? She did not really want to stay here herself.
She was saved from answering by a tap on the door and the entrance of Mrs. Appleby, who was twisting her apron uncomfortably before her. “Excuse me, miss, but I must speak to you.” She cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Mayfield.
“Now, Flos,” came Mr. Appleby’s voice from the doorway.
“I don’t care,” responded his wife.
“What is it, Mrs. Appleby?” said Margaret. “Is something wrong?”
“Not to say wrong, miss, but Mr. Camden—the gentleman didn’t sleep in his bed last night, and we were wondering if he’s left.” She looked furtively toward Mayfield again.
Margaret frowned as her father said, “Camden?” in a puzzled tone.
She waved him to silence. “He said nothing to me about leaving, Mrs. Appleby.” A cold hand seemed to clutch at her heart as she wondered whether he might have gone without a word.
A Radical Arrangement Page 15
