A Radical Arrangement (13 page)

This was too much. Without further thought, he put his arms around her and pulled her against his chest, one hand in her blond curls. “Go on and cry,” he said. “It helps.”

Margaret was at first so startled that she nearly stopped crying. It was so odd to find her cheek resting on his lapel and her shivering frame enclosed in strong arms. She felt him stroke her hair, and suddenly it seemed that there was even more to cry about than she had imagined. She abandoned herself wholly to tears.

It was some time before this emotional storm passed. Margaret sobbed, and Sir Justin held her firmly. At last she began gradually to regain control, and both of them came to their senses abruptly a moment later. Margaret stiffened and sniffed desperately. Keighley immediately dropped his arms and stepped back in dismay, wishing savagely that he had obeyed his baser impulses and left her.

Seeing his face, Margaret gulped back another sob. “I…I’m sorry,” she said foolishly.

“On the contrary. It is I who must beg your pardon,” was the stiff reply. “Your distress led me to overstep the bounds of propriety, and I hope you will believe that compassion was my only motive.”

This phrasing was so unlike him that Margaret could only swallow again and nod.

“It might be best if I left you now. Unless I can be of some help?”

She shook her head vehemently, desperate to be alone with her chaotic thoughts.

He bowed slightly and turned away. Margaret watched him stride along the street and around the corner, then turned her attention to composing herself enough to reach her bedchamber unremarked.

A frosty atmosphere descended upon the Red Lion and did not lift through two long days. Keighley, pronounced much improved, was allowed to go out alone for the first time, so now it was he who walked along the shore and Margaret who stayed in her room. She ventured out only for meals, and even then said and ate little. Some of the rosy color she had gained faded, and her shoulders showed the beginning of their old droop.

These outward signs were merely suggestive of her inner turmoil, which was far more intense. During the long, quiet hours in her room Margaret endlessly reviewed the events that had brought her here and the actions she had taken. She could not see what she could have done differently, but she wished with all her heart that things had not gone as they had. For Margaret had never been so uneasy and unhappy in her life. Something had happened to her in the last week, something she did not at all understand, and it now seemed to her that the future offered nothing but dreary routine and loneliness.

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.