A Radical Arrangement (4 page)

“Miss Mayfield,” called Sir Justin sharply. “I have come to take you home. It is no use running farther.”

His voice unsettled her so much that her grip on the bandbox loosened, and it fell into the road, bursting open and scattering her things in the dust. But she did not pause for an instant, merely kicking her mare again and holding the reins tightly as the combination of this unusual command and the fluttering in the road catapulted the horse into a wild gallop.

Keighley also urged his horse forward, and as it was much the more powerful mount, he was soon closing the distance between them. In a few moments they were abreast and he was leaning out to grasp her horse’s head and pull both to a stop.

“
No
,” cried Margaret, trying to fling herself down even before they stopped moving. “I won’t go with you. Leave me alone.”

Holding his own horse with his powerful knees, Keighley kept one hand on Margaret’s reins and, with the other, imprisoned her left arm in an iron grip. “Don’t be a fool,” he snapped, “or try to be less of one, at any rate.”

Margaret lost her head. Fumbling in the pocket of her gown, she drew out the pistol that she had taken from her father’s drawer just before she left the house. She knew it was loaded; her mother was always complaining about it. “Let me go,” she insisted, waving the gun in the air so that Keighley could see it.

“Where did you get that? Put it away at once and stop being ridiculous.”

This seemed the last straw. After all she had been through, to be called a fool and ridiculous. She cocked the pistol as she had seen her father do and pointed it at him. “Let go of me and
go
away
.”

He jerked her other arm impatiently and started to speak, but the abrupt movement jostled the gun, and with a deafening roar it went off, leaving Margaret dazed and trembling. As she watched, frozen with horror, a red stain appeared on Keighley’s left shoulder and spread.

His initial look of astonishment altered to a grimace, his grip loosened, and slowly he bent and slipped from his horse into a heap on the road.

Margaret’s mouth dropped open, and her blue eyes bulged. She hadn’t meant to shoot him. She had just wanted to frighten him away, so that he would leave her alone. Drops of blood began to show in the dust beside Keighley’s shoulder. His horse sidled uneasily and whickered. Somewhere in the field beside the road, a lark trilled. Margaret burst into frantic, desperate sobs.

Unable to stop crying, but knowing that she must do something if Sir Justin was not to bleed to death, Margaret struggled out of the saddle and dropped heavily to the ground. She went to Keighley and gingerly straightened his limbs until he was lying on his back in the road. The shoulder of his blue coat was now soaked with blood. Sniffling and wringing her hands, Margaret bent over him. She must stop the bleeding—she knew that much—and she must get help. But how? She had no knowledge of physic, and she couldn’t leave him to find someone who did.

Gathering all her resolution, Margaret knelt in the dust and pulled open Keighley’s coat, then his shirt. There was a small wound in the hollow of his left shoulder. She swallowed convulsively.
She
had done this. Thinking furiously, she seemed to remember that one stopped bleeding by pressing a cloth over the spot. Sir Justin’s handkerchief was before her, and she hastily folded it into a pad and laid it over the wound. It was immediately wet through with blood.

With a sound between a gasp and a sob, Margaret took it away again, looked around like a hunted rabbit, then turned back the skirt of her riding habit and began to rip her petticoat into strips. Luckily it was made in tiers and easy to pull apart. When she had a wad of cambric, she again folded a pad and pressed it to Keighley’s shoulder. To her immeasurable relief, it seemed to slow the bleeding.

“What be this?” asked a deep voice behind her, making Margaret start so that the bandage jerked free. Pressing it down again, she craned her neck and saw a countryman standing near the edge of the road. He had obviously approached across the field beyond. “Heerd a shot,” he added, gazing apprehensively at the scene before him.

Margaret thought more rapidly than ever before in her life. Where was the pistol? She had dropped it, but she couldn’t see it now. No, there it was, just hidden by the edge of her skirt. The man wouldn’t notice it. “Highwaymen,” she gasped. “They attacked us and took our luggage. My…my brother and I were riding to Penzance.”

“Highwaymen?” The man seemed astounded. “We bain’t had any sich thing hereabouts.”

“Well, you do now,” snapped Margaret, her fear making her brave. “Is there a house or a village nearby? My brother needs help. Could you go for someone, please?”

He scratched his head. “Closest village be yonder.” He pointed toward the sea. “Down on the shore.” He looked at Keighley doubtfully. “Path’s steep, though.”

“Could you fetch some men from there? He will have to be carried. Please hurry. I don’t know anything about wounds, and I am…” She caught her breath with difficulty. “I am afraid this one may be serious.”

“Village men be all out fishing,” objected her companion.

“Then get someone else,” she almost shrieked.

The man backed away a step, then bobbed his head and turned to hurry off on the other side of the road. In a few minutes he had disappeared over the cliff edge.

Quickly Margaret reached for the pistol and slipped it in the pocket of her gown.“Please, God, let him get back in time,” she murmured, pressing down on the bandage with all the strength of her tiring fingers.

It seemed years before anyone came, though it was not more than twenty minutes before a group of people emerged from the cliff path and hurried toward her—four women led by the countryman and another burly male.

“Tch, tch,” said the latter when they came close. “What’s all this, then?” And without waiting to find out, he knelt beside Margaret and replaced her fingers with his on the bandage. With a tremulous sigh, she sat back. “Highwaymen, is it?” continued the stranger. “We’ve hardly heard of such a thing in these parts. Terrible.”

Margaret gazed up mutely at the group surrounding her. A sturdy middle-aged woman stepped forward and nodded. “I’m Mrs. Appleby,” she said. “That’s my husband.” She indicated the kneeling man. “We keep a tavern in the village. Dan’s the only man about today. Fishing boats are out.”

“Do you have a room?” asked Margaret. “Can we take my…brother there? We must find him a doctor at once.”

Mrs. Appleby looked doubtful. “I can give you rooms. We have one or two we let now and then. But as for a doctor—”

“Let’s get him home, Flos, and worry over that later,” interrupted her husband. “Here, you, Luke, help me carry him. We can do it between us. The young lady can hold the bandage as we go, and you girls lead the horses.”

Margaret noticed that the other three women were quite young and, from their looks, daughters of the Applebys.

The climb down to the village was harrowing. There was a road a mile or so ahead, they told Margaret, but the cliff path was much quicker. Unfortunately it was also rough and steep, and it was no easy task carrying an unconscious man down it while keeping a bandage in place. At last, however, they managed it, walked a few hundred yards along a level beach, and came to the village, a cluster of whitewashed cottages perched above a seawall. The tavern, the Red Lion, was the topmost building, its foundations even with the roof of the next level. They hurried Keighley inside and up a narrow staircase to a small, clean bedchamber with windows looking out to sea, and laid him on the bed, Mrs. Appleby hastily stripping off the white counterpane just in time.

Margaret breathed a great sigh as Mr. Appleby again took her place with the bandage. “Where does the doctor live?” she asked. “I will go myself; I am too worried to wait.”

The Applebys shifted uneasily. “We don’t have a doctor, properly speaking,” replied the wife. “Not in the village. There’s one in Falmouth, but that’s more than an hour off, even at a gallop.”

“But he
must
have a doctor.”

“There’s old Mrs. Dowling,” offered one of the daughters. Mr. Appleby frowned.

“I reckon she’ll have to do,” said Mrs. Appleby slowly.

“Who is she?” asked Margaret.

“She’s our midwife, like. She nurses in the village. She knows her business, miss. And there’s no one else in reach.”

Margaret wrung her hands. “I’d rather have a doctor.”

Mrs. Appleby shrugged, though she looked sympathetic.

“Very well, ask Mrs. Dowling to come. But could someone ride to the doctor as well, please? Perhaps he could come tomorrow.”

The Applebys looked skeptical but agreed, and one of the daughters was sent for the midwife. Margaret sat down in the room’s solitary chair and gazed at Sir Justin. He was terribly pale. Even his lips were bloodless, and his black brows stood out startlingly against his pallid skin. The bandage was showing spots of blood now, so the bleeding had not entirely stopped, and Margaret thought he looked dreadful. She gazed appealingly up at Mr. Appleby, who continued to hold the cloth in place on Keighley’s shoulder. “Will he be all right, do you think?”

“Lord, miss, I’ve seen wounds worse than this heal in a matter of weeks,” replied the man stoutly. “In the peninsula we had men torn up something fearful stout as ever in a month.” His wife frowned a little, and he grimaced at her.

Margaret continued to stare at Keighley. “I hope he will be.”

“’Course he will, miss.”

They sat in silence for a while. The two remaining daughters slipped out of the room, and a few minutes later, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and the third daughter ushered an elderly woman in. Margaret drew back a little at her appearance. Mrs. Dowling, for so this must be, looked exactly like Margaret’s idea of a witch. She was old and a little bent, dressed in a shapeless gray gown, and her gray hair was twisted in a frizzled bun on her thin neck. She had a prominent nose and sunken blue eyes, which seemed to take in everything about her at a glance. Margaret hunched a bit.

But Mrs. Dowling’s attention was directed at Keighley. “Is he really shot?” she asked Appleby. He nodded, and she pursed her lips, setting a bundle on the small bedside table. “Let’s have a look, then.” Appleby slowly removed his hands and stepped back as Mrs. Dowling took his place. She peeled back the pad and gazed at the hole in Keighley’s shoulder. “Tch, tch, bullet still in, I suppose.”

“Seems so,” agreed Appleby.

Mrs. Dowling sighed and opened her bundle, taking out some implements, which filled Margaret with dread. “Who’s the young lady?” inquired the midwife.

“Sister.”

“Ah. You’d best go downstairs, dearie.”

Margaret knew she should protest, should insist upon staying and helping with the operation. But she couldn’t bear the thought of watching Mrs. Dowling use those pinchers on Sir Justin. Mutely she nodded and turned to go.

“I’ll speak to you after,” added the old woman. “We’ll need some boiling water, Flos.”

“It’ll be on by now. I’ll fetch it up.”

The two walked downstairs together. “You can sit in the front parlor, miss. There’s no one about this time of day.”

“Thank you.” Margaret entered the indicated room and sat down on an old brown sofa. She clasped her hands in her lap and endeavored to wait calmly. But the awful scene in the road kept running through her mind, and she was oppressed with a dreadful sense of guilt. What if Sir Justin died? It would be she who had killed him. She had never meant to hurt him. And if he recovered, as she profoundly hoped he would, how angry he was going to be.

These dismal thoughts led to others. If—
when
—he felt better, how were they to go on? It was obvious that he would not be traveling for a long while, and she could not, of course, abandon him here. But what were they to do for clothes or money? All her things were scattered on the road, and the small amount of money she had been able to scrape together, though safe in a packet in her reticule, would not last them long.

Margaret put her forehead in her hand and fought tears once again. She had never felt so miserable. Her former placid existence seemed a vast distance away as well as incalculably desirable now that it was gone forever. For some time she lost herself in a self-pitying haze.

A sound from the doorway brought her upright with a jerk. Mrs. Dowling stood there, gazing at her and looking even more disturbingly like a fairy-tale witch.

“Is he all right?” asked Margaret.

The old woman came farther into the parlor and shut the door. “I got the bullet,” she answered. “But he’s weak. Hasn’t come round yet. He’ll need nursing.” She surveyed Margaret skeptically.

“I…I’ll nurse him, if you will tell me exactly what I must do.”

Mrs. Dowling laughed shortly. “I can do that all right. But I doubt you’ll relish the job.”

“I can do what I must,” answered Margaret, wondering as she said the words whether they were true.

“Can ye, now?” The other seemed to weigh this statement. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Margaret…Margaret, er, Camden.” She used the first name that came into her head as she suddenly realized that she did not wish to reveal her own.

“And the gentleman?”

“He’s my brother…Harry Camden.”

“To be sure, they told me he was your brother.” Her sharp blue eyes bored into Margaret’s. “You’re not much alike.”

“N-no. I resemble my mother and he our father.” She was amazed at her own inventiveness. Falsehoods seemed to flow from her tongue automatically.

“Indeed? Well, it’s lucky for him he has a sister here, for he’s in a bad way, and no mistake. You’ll be sending to your parents, likely?”

“Er, no. They’re…traveling abroad.”

Mrs. Dowling folded her thin arms over her chest and gazed at Margaret. The girl moved uneasily. “Huh,” said the midwife finally. “Well, if you really mean to take on the nursing…”

“I do.”

“Come along, then, and I’ll show you what must be done.”

Relieved to be finished with questions, Margaret followed her up the stairs and back to Keighley’s bedchamber. He was lying on his back again, his shirt gone and his shoulder swathed in strips of linen. His breathing sounded ominously heavy to Margaret.

But Mrs. Dowling ignored it, merely giving rapid instructions before packing up her bundle once again. “I’ll be by tomorrow,” she finished. “And I live just down the way. Send if he seems bad.”

“Yes, thank you. Thank you very much, Mrs. Dowling. I don’t know what we should have done without you. Do we, er, owe you…”

“Wait until he begins to mend, then we’ll talk of payment.”

“Thank you.” Margaret was relieved at this.

The old woman nodded and turned to go, hitching her bundle onto her hip. “You’d best send for someone,” she said over her shoulder. “Nursing’s no light task, and I have other calls.”

“I’ll manage.”

Mrs. Dowling shrugged unbelievingly and went out.

Left alone with the unconscious Keighley, Margaret began to wonder what made her think she could manage. She had never managed anything without her mother in nineteen years. Perhaps she should send for help. But who? Not her parents. Margaret shuddered at the thought of telling them what had befallen her. If they had wished her to marry Sir Justin
before
, what must they say now? And they would never forgive her for shooting him, even by mistake.

What of Sir Justin’s connections, though? Not his family—the mere thought of contacting any of them made Margaret cringe. She could not possibly explain what had occurred. But what of his servants? She could write to his house and ask someone to come. But then the neighborhood would know where he was, and the servant would recognize her and tell her parents. No, that would not do, either. It appeared things were up to her.

Margaret drooped guiltily. The situation was very bad, and no doubt all her fault. She had certainly made a mull of it when she took her life into her own hands. How could she assume the responsibility for another’s? She looked again at Keighley. He still breathed stentoriously; his skin was deathly pale. She hadn’t killed him yet, but she might with her unskilled nursing. A wave of hopelessness washed over Margaret; she felt like giving up.

But at that low moment, when all her resources seemed gone, some spark of obstinacy sprang to life, and Margaret raised her head. She had made a great many mistakes but, after all, she had no experience in managing. No one got a thing right all at once. If she persevered, would she not improve? And everything was
not
her fault. Sir Justin, at least, shared the guilt. She would show him—she would show them all—that she was not the little fool they thought her. She would nurse Justin Keighley back to health, and then she would go… Her plan did not extend further at the moment. She would think of something.