A Radical Arrangement (16 page)

“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.

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.

“His things are still here,” put in Mr. Appleby, coming into the room from the corridor. “He hasn’t left.”

Mrs. Appleby looked unconvinced. “He didn’t have much luggage, nothing he couldn’t do without.”

“His money’s locked in the desk drawer,” answered her husband disgustedly. “And we shouldn’t be bothering folks about him.” He, too, looked at Mr. Mayfield, more openly but with more concern.

The latter had realized whom they were speaking of. “He’s gone,” Mayfield said positively. “Afraid I’d insist he do the right thing, the blackguard. But he’ll have to go back to Devon. We’ll find him there.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Appleby. “But I don’t think he can have gone. His horse is here too. He’d have no way of traveling without it.”

“Probably he is out walking,” said Margaret. “He has been doing a great deal of that since he was better.”

“And made up his own bed?” asked Mrs. Appleby skeptically.

“Perhaps he didn’t sleep. We had a—disagreement last night.”

“Yes, miss.” Both Applebys looked as though they had heard most of the proceedings.

“I daresay he will return at any moment, wanting his breakfast.” Margaret’s tone sounded false even to herself.

“Well, I just thought you should know,” replied Mrs. Appleby, turning to go. “It’s not a question of money, of course. I expect you’ll take care of that.” With another secret look at Mr. Mayfield, she left them, taking her husband with her.

“He’s gone, Margaret,” said Mayfield when they were alone again. “He couldn’t face the consequences of his dishonorable actions.” He sounded somehow satisfied with this idea.

“Will you stop, Papa? Do you care nothing for how I feel?”

He gazed at her in surprise.

Margaret struggled to control her emotions. What if he
had
left her? She realized that she had not entirely given up hope. “I am sure Sir Justin is only out walking.”

“Margaret, it is raining. And has been half the night. He would have to be mad to be out in this downpour, and those people thought you so for suggesting it, though they were too polite to say so.”

“I…I forgot the rain.” Looking toward the window, Margaret saw that it was still coming down heavily. Something in her gave way, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. She could not stop them.

“Here, Margaret,” exclaimed her father. “Here, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be so sharp with you. I was angry.” He bustled over and pressed his handkerchief on her.

She took it and dabbed at her eyes, but the tears would not be dried. The man she loved had fled from her; she had never felt so alone in her life.

Mayfield hovered anxiously. “What would
you
like to do, Margaret?” he asked. “Won’t you come home with me and…and think things over?”

She couldn’t speak, but his tone was so apologetic and worried that she reached out and squeezed his hand. He held hers eagerly.

A door slammed nearby, and Margaret looked up. But it was Jemmy Appleby’s voice that sounded in the corridor, calling for his father, and her head sank down again.

Silence fell in the parlor, broken only by Margaret’s stifled sobs. Her father looked by turns angry and uneasy. Then, with a second tap on the door, Mr. Appleby returned, leading Jem by the hand.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, averting his eyes from Margaret’s tear-stained face. “But Jem here has some news.”

“The
Gull
’s gone,” the boy burst out. “I went down this morning to see to her mooring, and she was
gone
. And old Ned at the docks says he seen a gentleman take her out last night.”

Margaret sniffed convulsively.

“What is he talking about?” asked her father.

“The
Gull
is his boat,” explained Mr. Appleby. “He and the gentleman and the young lady have been out in her together.”

“He was out in the storm?” gulped Margaret.

“Hard to say, miss—”

“He put out before it started,” interrupted Jem. “And he might have gotten to shore several places before it blew up. But where was he going, miss? And why would he take the
Gull
out in the dark? She’s a good boat, but she’s not fitted for night sailing. Mr. Camden knew that. He knew a deal about boats.”

“Enough to get away from here in one, I daresay,” replied Mr. Mayfield. “So much for your horses, innkeeper. He has made his escape by water.”

Jem appeared to take this suggestion seriously, without considering its implications. “He could have,” he agreed. “With sharp sailing, he might have even made Falmouth before the worst of the storm. But you know, miss, with his shoulder the way it was, I wonder if he could handle her properly? The
Gull
takes some quick work when the wind’s up.”

“I can see no other possible reason for him to have gone out in a boat,” answered Mr. Mayfield coldly. “It was hardly the hour for a pleasure cruise.”

Mr. Appleby had begun to look doubtful. “It do seem odd,” he agreed.

“He would not have been able to sail,” cried Margaret. “His shoulder was only just healed, and Mrs. Dowling said he was on no account to strain it. He has had an accident! We must search for him.” She looked wildly about, as if half expecting to find Keighley lying broken somewhere nearby.

Mr. Appleby shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Mayfield looked thunderous. Only Jemmy appeared to consider her idea possible. “I doubt it, miss,” he answered. “What I think is, he probably found the storm too much for him and put in somewhere nearby. Mr. Camden is sharp, and he would have seen that the
Gull
wouldn’t hold in that wind, with him not at his best, that is.” Jem nodded, with the air of one giving credit where it is due. “If he hadn’t been wounded, I daresay Mr. Camden could have sailed her ’cross the Channel and back again.”

Margaret had hung on his words. “What should we do, then?”

Jem shrugged. “The wind’s down. I expect he’ll bring her back later today.” He hunched one shoulder in his father’s direction. “I never wanted all this fuss about it.”

Mr. Appleby frowned at him, and Mayfield glared at Margaret, but she was too distracted to notice. “We simply wait, then?” she murmured.

“I’ll keep watch for him, miss,” responded Jemmy, and, pulling free of his father’s hand, he went out.

“Margaret,” said Mr. Mayfield ponderously.

“I must go out,” she said, turning to the door.

“You will do no such thing!”

“Papa, he is out on the water with an injured shoulder, and…”

“And what is that to you? This is the man who has destroyed your good character and flatly refused to marry you. The man whom you insisted that
you
did not wish to marry. Why these hysterics?”

“I…I can’t explain it, Papa. I must—”

“You must do as I say. I command you to pack your things and be ready to go home with me in an hour. I will call for the carriage.”

“I
can’t
, Papa.”

“Are you defying me to my face, Margaret?”

She stared at him. She had never refused any of her parents’ demands. Even in running away she had not confronted them. But now it seemed almost easy to reply, “Yes, Papa. I am sorry. I will be back soon.”

“
Margaret
.” But she had left the room.

She ran upstairs for her hooded cloak and hurried down again before her father could pursue her with more arguments. Throwing the garment around her, she rushed out into the rain and flung herself down the cobblestones to the seawall. The storm was definitely lessening. Though the rain continued, the wind had calmed to a breeze, and far to the east, lighter sky showed. Margaret bent her head against the raindrops and leaned against the wall, peering out over the water. There was no boat to be seen.

She walked toward the docks, then back around the village to the steps down to the beach. She thought of visiting her pool but rejected the idea, turning to pace back the way she had come. Now that she was alone, her thoughts boiled up and she wondered uneasily whether Sir Justin had indeed used the
Gull
to escape his awkward situation. Why else, indeed, would he go out at such a time?

Shaking her head, she pushed the idea away and looked out to sea again. But though she walked along the seawall most of that day, there was no sign of Keighley or the
Gull
, not even when the clouds broke up at three and the sun illumined the now peaceful waves.