“You’re botching this job, you know,” said Mrs. Dowling.
“I beg your pardon?”
“She’ll not be happy without him.”
“If you are speaking of my daughter—”
“Nor he without her, if I know anything.”
Ralph Mayfield swelled in outrage. Not only had his daughter defied him and her ravisher escaped, but now this old fisherwoman had the temerity to criticize his actions. It was too much. “You don’t,” he snapped. “You know nothing whatever. Now, if you will be good enough to tell me how much—”
“I know more about them two than you,” interrupted Mrs. Dowling. “I’ve seen it coming. They belong together.”
“Can you possibly mean—”
“I mean your daughter and the gentleman. It’s plain as the nose on your face.”
“No doubt that is why Kei—the ‘gentleman’ has taken to his heels and left my daughter here.”
“Oh, that was because of you. If you hadn’t come, all would have been well.”
Mayfield had to take a breath before he could speak. “You were in his pay. So I spoiled your little game, eh? Both of you. If I had not come, Margaret would have been seduced—I caught him at that—and kept here as long as she interested him, I suppose. You—you—it sickens me to think of it.”
Mrs. Dowling shook her head. “You are a thick one, aren’t you?”
“How much?” answered Mayfield through clenched teeth.
She named a small sum, and he threw it down on the table. “You’d do better to—”
“Enough,” he roared. “If I find that you have been near my daughter again, I shall have the law on you.” And he slammed out of the cottage.
“Highty-tighty,” said Mrs. Dowling. She put two fingers to her lips, then hurried out her back door and along certain narrow passages up to the Red Lion.
Owing to her superior knowledge of the village, she reached the inn before Mr. Mayfield. Seeing the chaise pulled up before the front door, she looked inside, but the vehicle was empty. She slipped through the inn door and looked in the parlor. Here she found Margaret slumped in a chair, one hand over her eyes. “Miss,” she hissed, causing the girl to start. “Here, leave your direction with the Applebys. I’ll send for you if he comes back.” And before Margaret could reply, she was gone again.
In the next moment Margaret heard her father calling her. But she ran to the writing desk and wrote out her real name and address on a scrap of notepaper. After a moment’s hesitation, she also scribbled a short note to Sir Justin and sealed it. She was just finishing when her father strode in and demanded, “Why aren’t you in the chaise?”
“Coming, Father.” She rose, putting the hand that held the letters behind her.
He gestured impatiently, and she followed him into the corridor.
“I will just say good-bye to Mrs. Appleby.”
“You have done that.”
“She was so kind.” Not waiting for an argument, Margaret darted toward the kitchen. Mrs. Appleby and her daughters were there, and she mumbled a good-bye as she thrust the papers into the woman’s hands. Before her father could protest further, she was back and heading toward the front door. “All right, Papa,” she said.
Mayfield watched her back speculatively, then he frowned and walked to the kitchen. Mrs. Appleby was still standing as Margaret had left her, looking perplexedly at the letters in her hand.
“I’ll just take those,” said Mayfield, taking them from her and substituting a gold sovereign. “We are on our way. Good day, Mrs. Appleby.”
“But the young lady…”
“Good day.” He turned on his heel and left her staring, joining Margaret in the chaise before she realized that he had delayed.
Margaret did not afterward remember much of the ride home. They hardly spoke, and she was sunk in her own despondent thoughts. She could not keep herself from recalling her days with Keighley, the picnic, their talks—their embrace. That last evening came back to her again and again. It was like a happy dream that had turned to a nightmare. She would remember how he had held her and looked at her, and then it would all dissolve with a crash and the sound of her father’s voice.
What was she going to do? she wondered over and over. Her home in Devon now seemed a prison to which she was being inexorably dragged. She might never speak to Keighley again. What would she do?
Eighteen
When Sir Justin had cast off the lines, pushed out from the dock, and raised the Gull’s small sail, he immediately felt better. There was a good breeze, and the little boat at once began to skim along the water away from the village. He took great lungfuls of rushing air and, with one hand on the tiller and the other holding the mainsheet, felt himself start to relax.
The waves were choppy but small, and the moon shed a fitful light over them. The movement of the Gull was both exhilarating and soothing. Keighley tacked back and forth across the bay, heading generally toward its mouth and the open sea, though he did not intend to enter it. He felt at one with the vessel, leaning as she leaned and breasting each wave with her, wholly in control, a feeling he particularly relished after this evening. The sensations were so pleasant that he paid no attention to the weather, as he certainly would have at any other time, and thus did not notice the gradual thickening of the clouds and the stepping up of the wind. Only when a few drops of rain spattered his face did he gaze upward, and then he frowned and cursed and turned the little boat back toward its berth.
By this time, however, it was too late. The squall had blown up over the bay, and the waves were cresting higher with each moment. As he tried to hold the Gull on course for the village an especially violent gust of wind hit her, making the sail crack and wrenching the controlling rope from his hand. In an instant all was chaos. The sail flapped wildly; the boat wallowed in the wave trough and rocked so deeply that it shipped water on each side in turn. And Keighley lay back in the stern, his teeth clenched in pain, gripping his injured shoulder with a desperate hand. The unexpected pull had strained it beyond bearing, and it now felt as it had not for weeks. He could scarcely move the arm, let alone pull in the sheet again.
The boat rocked madly, adding to the disorienting effect of the pain. Keighley felt dizzy and confused. But finally he crouched and carefully reached for the rope with his good arm. Holding it loosely, he slid back by the tiller, sitting in the bottom of the Gull and draping his wounded shoulder over it, the arm curled around its length. Gingerly he pulled in the rope until the sail tightened slightly and caught the wind. He could hardly hold it, even huffing slightly. However, with the wind once again pushing the boat, he could at least steer a bit, and he looked around to find the closest refuge, all thoughts of the village gone.
From his low position he could see no land. He considered trying to stand but rejected the idea as too dangerous in his present condition. The easiest choice was simply to run before the wind. It was coming from the sea and thus must drive him to shore eventually. Whether he could last so long, or the boat stay afloat in these waves, he did not know, but there was no other choice.
Keighley thrust himself against the tiller, almost crying out at the pain this caused in his shoulder, and turned the craft in the proper direction. The sail swung out perpendicular to the small mast, and he managed to tie the rope to the cleat provided, though clumsily. Now he need only keep the tiller straight and the boat would find land. He draped himself over it and prayed that it would not be too long before it did so.
For what seemed hours he crouched there, the pain growing worse. But he hung on to the tiller grimly, keeping it steady when the waves tried to knock it aside. Once, when the Gull crested a particularly large swell, he thought he saw land ahead and his hopes soared. But in the next moment a sudden gust of wind hit the taut sail, the boat groaned with the impact, and the mast snapped in two at the base.
The cr
aft nearly capsized there and then, all but ending Keighley’s adventure. The sail and mast fell over the side and, dragging in the water, pulled the hull over with them. All forward motion ceased, and the boat again began to pitch and roll drunkenly in the waves. Panting, Sir Justin crawled slowly forward, thinking with each heave of the deck that he would lose his hold and fall into the water. But he reached the base of the mast without accident and there found, to his profound relief, that it was broken through. He would not have to try to cut it free in this confusion; he need only heave it and the sail overboard.
This, however, was easier thought than done. Keighley found it abominably difficult to lift the heavy mast and sodden sail while maintaining a secure position in the pitching boat. He would get the shaft raised six inches and start to push it from the craft only to lose his balance and be forced to drop it in order to grab something and steady himself. This occurred over and over, and his shoulder was becoming almost unbearably painful before he at last managed, with the aid of a surge of water, to be rid of the sail. It floated away behind like a fallen cloud.
The Gull at once rode higher. But it had taken a good deal of water, which sloshed back and forth with each roll, and there was now little hope of steering. Keighley put his head on his arms on the front decking and tried to summon the energy to crawl back to the tiller. He should at least try. But, incredibly, he felt sleep pulling him. Simply to drop off in this rocking vessel seemed infinitely desirable, to forget everything and let fate take him where it would.
Raising his head, he shook it sharply. The pain was exhausting and confusing him, but he could not give up. He inched back toward the stern, groaning aloud once when the waves slammed the decking into his supporting hand and arm, and at last regained his former position draped over the tiller. He could try to keep the craft headed into the wind and not let her be swamped by the waves; there was nothing else to be done.
Another time passed, again seeming endless to Keighley, though it was only an hour. The Gull shipped more water and began to roll like an overfed pig. His head dropped onto his chest, and he drifted between consciousness and oblivion, a red stain starting to spread over his wounded shoulder. And then, without warning, the bottom grated on rock.
Keighley jerked upright. The night had thickened, but he could see a darker mass looming above him. He had reached land. The Gull again heaved forward, scraping on the sand, and in one final, desperate effort, he lunged forward, scrambling over the bow and into the water. It came only to his knees, and he somehow dragged the boat farther up until it seemed secure on a narrow beach. Then, completely drained, he pitched to the ground beside it and knew no more.
He woke to heavy rain. Though he could not tell how much time had passed, he was soaked through and shivering. He started to lever himself up and fell back with a cry when he put weight on his injured shoulder. It burned more fiercely than it had since the shooting. But the pelting rain made him try again. He must find shelter. He staggered to his feet and looked about. Perhaps there was a house. Shadows, shot through with spots of light, seemed to dance before his eyes. He thought he saw something, then realized that there was nothing there. Fever, he thought fuzzily. He moved inland but almost at once struck a steep rise that defeated his exhausted energies, and he returned to the sand. There he nearly tripped over the Gull, which was lying overturned just above the wave line. He fell to his knees beside it. If he could get under, he would be dry.
The front of the boat had fallen on a small hillock, leaving a narrow opening through which a man might just squeeze after scooping out a bit of sand. With agonizing slowness, Keighley did this, and after a while was able to crawl beneath the hull and lie flat. It felt good to be out of the now driving rain, and he relaxed without another thought into unconsciousness once again.
He did not rouse until the returning sun made the boat an oven of damp heat, and even then he only writhed from side to side and called out broken words, his body drenched with sweat. It was thus that Jem Appleby found him the following morning, when he and two helpers raised the Gull and turned it over. Keighley did not recognize them or indeed seem to realize that he had been rescued. His breath came in great rasps, and his skin was mottled red.
“Lor’,” commented Jem. “He do look bad. We’d best get him home as soon as may be.”
“How do you suppose he came to the island?” wondered one of the others, a weather-beaten sailor of fifty.
“He knew it,” answered Jem. “I brought him here. Perhaps he made for it when he saw the storm coming up.” He looked at the Gull with a mixture of doubt and deep sorrow. “Or perhaps he was blown here. Looks like it. Come on. Help me carry him to the boat.”
“Shall we take the Gull?” asked the other, slipping his hands under Keighley’s legs and heaving him up.
“We’ll see if she’ll tow. I don’t want to leave her here.”
In this way they returned to the village, Keighley lying oblivious across the gunwales and the Gull wallowing disconsolately along behind. Their arrival attracted some attention, and a small crowd gathered to watch them carry Sir Justin along the dock and up toward the Red Lion.
“Someone run ahead and tell my mother,” panted Jem. “And fetch Mrs. Dowling. The gentleman’s took bad.”
Two onlookers ran to do these errands, and by the time the little procession reached the inn both Mrs. Appleby and Mrs. Dowling were outside waiting for them. They carried Keighley upstairs to his bedchamber, and the latter examined him. “Fever,” she pronounced positively. “And he’s opened his wound again. He’s bad.”
Mrs. Appleby wrung her hands. “What shall we do?”
“Nurse him, of course. I’d best move in here for a few days, Flos. Annie can help me. He’ll need watching for a while.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. But—I mean, after everything that has happened—”
Mrs. Dowling shrugged. “This gentleman will die if we don’t take care. That’s all I know just now. Will you find me some hot water, Flos? And ask Dan to come up and help me lift him.”
The other wrung her hands again. “Dan’s gone into Falmouth for supplies.”
“Then you’ll have to help me yourself. Or Jem. Get Jem. And that hot water. Quickly, now.”
With a small moan, Mrs. Appleby hurried out. The next half hour was a flurry of bathing, bandages, and cold compresses, but at the end Mrs. Dowling pronounced herself more satisfied. “He’s very hot,” she told the others. “It’s a pity it’s not cooler out. But he may do. I’ll sit with him. You can go. Send Annie at dinnertime.”
The Applebys left her. Mrs. Dowling took some knitting out of the bag she had brought with her and sat down in the armchair near the bed. With only occasional interruptions to change the compress on Keighley’s forehead, she knitted through the afternoon, her blue worsted square growing steadily larger.
At four, Sir Justin seemed to worsen. He thrashed about in the bed as if the covers chafed him and rolled his head from side to side. Mrs. Dowling tried to soothe him with a fresh compress, but he shook it off and abruptly muttered, “Margaret. Margaret.”
“There, now,” responded his nurse. “You lie back. It’s no good calling her now.”
“Must get back,” he said more loudly. He made as if to throw back the covers. “Must speak.”
Mrs. Dowling pushed firmly down on his good shoulder. “Not now, you mustn’t. You need to rest first. It will wait.”
“Margaret,” he murmured again. “Didn’t mean it.”
Clucking soothingly and thrusting him gently down, Mrs. Dowling managed to calm him. But these episodes recurred twice during the afternoon, and just before Annie was to relieve her for dinner, Keighley sat bolt upright and positively shouted, “Margaret. You must listen to me. I didn’t mean it.” When his nurse clasped his forearms, he looked at her without recognition and repeated himself.
“Yes, indeed, sir. She’ll listen
. I guarantee you that.”
Some spark of consciousness seemed to appear in Sir Justin’s face. “I made a mistake,” he told Mrs. Dowling earnestly. “A terrible mistake.”
“Well, we all go wrong now and then. You’ll make it right when you’re better.”
“She doesn’t know. She thinks I meant it. I must tell her at once.”
“You will tell her, but not until you rest summat. Now lie back.” Her practiced commanding tone reached him, and he obeyed, but he remained restless.
When Annie came in, he sat up again. “You tell her,” he exclaimed, still hovering between lucidity and delirium.
“All right, all right, sir. I’ll do my best,” agreed the old woman. “You behave yourself now for Annie, and I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Tell her,” he insisted.
“I’ll send word at once.”
This seemed to satisfy Keighley for the moment, and Mrs. Dowling went downstairs to find Mrs. Appleby. “We must send for the young lady,” she told her. “He insists on speaking to her, and I believe it will do him good.”
The landlady nodded. “I thought there was something there.”
“You thought they were brother and sister,” snorted Mrs. Dowling derisively.
“Well, they said so.”
“Said. But that’s by the by. We must send a letter. You or Dan will have to write. I’m no hand at it.”
Mrs. Appleby nodded again. “Jem can carry it. He’s been moping about like a sick cat.”
“What’s her direction? Is it far?”
“What do you mean? I don’t know it. I thought you did.”
“I? She was to leave her name and direction with you. I told her to.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
“She said she would.”
“I can’t help that. She… Wait a minute.”
Mrs. Dowling scowled impatiently. “We haven’t a deal of minutes to wait.”
“That must have been the paper she gave me.”
A Radical Arrangement Page 17
