A Radical Arrangement (19 page)

“Yes,” agreed Maria Twitchel eagerly. “Is it not strange? We have not seen
either
of you since your parents’ dinner party in July. It seems so long ago now. And no one seems to know where Sir Justin has gone.” Her eyes bored into Margaret’s. “I don’t suppose
you’ve
heard, Margaret?”

“I? Why should
I
hear?”

Mrs. Twitchel shrugged. “Oh, one does, sometimes.”

“I haven’t the least idea where he may be,” replied Margaret truthfully. Her tone seemed to both convince and disappoint her hearers.

“I was so sorry to read about your engagement,” said Alice Camden then. “Mr. Manningham seemed such a
nice
young man.”

Margaret knew that her parents had sent a notice to the
Morning
Post
announcing the end of her engagement. “Wasn’t he?” she agreed cordially. She was rather enjoying this exchange, something she would never have predicted. “You must look for him when you go to London next season.”

Alice blushed and fell silent.

“Do you plan to go as well?” inquired Mrs. Twitchel, by no means daunted by the new, assertive Margaret. “A
second
season is always pleasant. One knows just what to do.”

Margaret shrugged.

“Oh, you must insist. I daresay your mother will be only too glad to have you with them once again.” They all looked over at Mrs. Mayfield, who unluckily was at this moment glancing toward her daughter. Everyone smiled nervously and looked away again.

“Peaches,” exclaimed Margaret in an effort to change the subject as dessert was brought out. “How lovely they are. I haven’t had fresh peaches all summer.”

“I thought your aunt had trees.”

Margaret swallowed. Her aunt
did
; she was immensely proud of her fruit. “They got the blight,” she answered, callously sacrificing her aunt’s orchard and praying she would not tomorrow send them a bushel of its produce.

“A pity,” said Mrs. Twitchel.

The rest of the meal passed relatively calmly, and the gentlemen at the table were allowed to make a few innocuous remarks about the fine weather. Margaret escaped as soon as possible and joined the guests who were beginning to congregate on the terrace, under the awning. Her father was there, and she went to stand at the edge of his group.

“It’s ridiculous,” Mr. Twitchel was saying to him. “All they can talk of is reform, reform. They cannot seem to understand that giving in to these disgraceful tactics—riots, machinery breaking, arson—will only encourage the riffraff who instigate them. And then we shall see chaos. Give that sort of man the vote?
Preposterous
.”

Mr. Mayfield was nodding sagely when he suddenly froze at the sound of his daughter’s voice saying, “Perhaps if they had the vote, they would not feel obliged to express their wishes in such violent ways.”

The men in the group turned to stare at her. Mr. Twitchel’s mouth fell open, and he looked as astonished as if Mrs. Camden’s pug dog had spoken. “
Margaret
,” said Mr. Mayfield.

“Surely, Father, you can see how maddening it must be to have no voice in government when the laws passed are grinding your life away? Now, if the laborers had the vote, they would feel—”

“
Laborers
,” sputtered Mr. Twitchel. “You must be joking.”

“Margaret knows nothing whatever about—”

“Yes, I do, Papa. I have done some reading and visited a number of poor families.” Margaret had become engrossed in the discussion, and the desire to show her new knowledge made her forget the need for concealment. “I saw firsthand how badly off they are. Really, something must be done for them.”

“Margaret,” said Mayfield more weakly. He looked like a boxer who has taken a telling blow.

“If one tries to help them, they merely stop working and come to expect charity,” said Twitchel.

“I can’t believe that is true. Every man I spoke to wanted desperately to work. Often they could not find employment.”

“There is work for anyone who wants it,” countered Mr. Twitchel smugly. “They must learn to accept the jobs there are, rather than reject them as low or degrading.”

“But, Mr. Twitchel, I assure you that there
were
no jobs. They did not want…”

Their voices had risen, and most of the guests had turned to see what was happening. Margaret’s mother was even now bearing down on the group with a set expression. Abruptly Margaret recalled where she was and to whom she spoke. This was not like talking to Sir Justin, who had been interested in her opinions. Here she was merely a silly young girl, and even had she been respected, she would never convince the likes of John Twitchel, or her parents.

“Margaret,” said her mother in a commanding tone, “I think it is time we were going. You are still overtired from your journey.”

With a slight shrug, Margaret agreed. Her mother, gathering her stunned husband, said their good-byes, and herded them to the carriage in front of the house. Not until they were inside and driving home did she add, “What has come over you, Margaret? I have never been so mortified.”

Margaret smiled sadly. “I appear to have become a radical.”

Her father gasped, but her mother said, “
Nonsense
. These ridiculous ideas will disappear in time, and you will wonder how you came to be so foolish.” But she did not sound entirely convinced by her own words, and an uneasy silence fell in the vehicle.

Margaret gazed out the window. Everything was dreadful. Baiting the neighbors had been slightly amusing, but she did not care if she never saw any of them again. She wanted only one thing, and that she could not have.

As she thought this she suddenly saw something that made her stiffen and cry, “
Stop
. Stop the carriage.” The driver, hearing her, pulled up so abruptly that her mother was thrown into her father’s arms, and Margaret hurled herself out into the road. “Jem,” she cried. “Jem Appleby.” And the boy who had been wearily riding toward them on a large cob raised his head, grinned, and waved.

The Mayfields’ greeting of Jem was by no means as enthusiastic as their daughter’s. They refused to allow him in the coach, insisted, in fact, that Margaret rejoin them at once and come home. Seeing her mother’s irate expression, the girl complied. She did not want to talk to Jem in their presence in any case. But as soon as they reached the house she was out and holding the boy’s mount so that he could slide off. “What has happened?” she asked him in a low voice. “Why did your father not write me?”

Jem leaned against his horse’s side, looking tired.

“Margaret,” snapped Mrs. Mayfield. “Come into the house.”

“In a moment, Mama. Jem?”

“Excuse me, miss. I just need to rest a minute.”

“You are worn-out, poor boy. How long have you been on the road?”

“Four days.”

She surveyed his white face and shaking hands. “When did you eat last?”

Jem looked down. “I used all the money yesterday, and—”

“Come along,” interrupted Margaret firmly. “We will go to the kitchens first, and then you shall tell me what has happened.”

Mrs. Mayfield called again, but Margaret ignored her.

Settled with a large slice of cold meat pie, Jem was much better, and he had soon told Margaret his story.

She was on her feet and pacing before he was done, her heart flaming with eagerness and hope. “Of course we will go at once,” she said. “Or—can you ride, Jem?”

“’Course I can. I was just hungry.” He finished the pie in one huge bite and mumbled through it, I’m ready.”

Margaret laughed. “You have a little time. I must pack some things. You can have another slice.”

Jem gazed at the remaining pie avidly.

“Go on. I’ll come back when I’m ready.” She left him cutting another portion and went into the front hall. As she put her foot on the bottom step, however, her mother emerged from the library.

“Margaret, come in here,” she said. “We want to speak to you.”

“I’m sorry, Mama, but I’m in a great hurry. There’s been an accident, and I must go back to Cornwall at once.”

“Out of the question.” Mrs. Mayfield folded her arms and glared.

Margaret hesitated. She could pretend to be cowed and then slip away as she had done the last time. This might be easier than arguing with her parents. But she did not want to. She was capable of making her own decisions, and it was time they realized this. Without speaking, she walked into the library, her mother just behind.

Her father was standing behind his desk. “So, what is all this?” he said when she came in.

“There has been an accident, Papa, and I must go back to Cornwall.”

“Nonsense. I forbid it, of course. An accident to whom?”

“Sir Justin.”

“
Hah
. A transparent attempt to lure you back into his clutches.”

“Oh, Papa.”

“Whatever it is, you certainly cannot go,” put in Mrs. Mayfield. “I cannot believe that you would entertain the idea for a moment. Indeed, Margaret, you are dreadfully changed. First at the party and now
this
.” She almost shuddered.

“Yes, I
am
changed. And because I am, there is nothing you can do to stop me from leaving.”

Her parents drew themselves up.

“Even if you lock me in my room, I shall climb out the window and go.”

“
Margaret
,” exclaimed both at once.

“So, you see, you had best let me do what I think right.”

“Right?” Her mother was rigid with astonishment and outrage.

“I will be going as soon as I pack a few things,” finished the girl, and she turned on her heel and left the room, her parents gaping after her.

In less than half an hour she was ready. She wore her riding habit and had hurriedly thrust some things into a bandbox. She felt queer. This was so like, and yet so unlike, her previous journey. She fetched Jem from the kitchen and ordered their horses, but the footman to whom she spoke shuffled nervously and did not reply. Suspecting that her parents had told the servants not to obey her, she gave Jem the bandbox and led the way to the stables, where together they saddled their mounts under the scandalized and disapproving eye of the head groom. It was not until they were starting down the avenue before the house that Margaret saw her parents again. They stood together on the front steps, looking angry and somehow bewildered. “If you go,” said her mother, “we positively disown you. You needn’t come back.”

These words hurt, and Margaret experienced a moment of doubt, as if she had been struck a sudden sharp blow and could not at once recover all her wits. But then she straightened and nodded, turning her horse’s head away.

“
Margaret
,” cried her father, anguish in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she replied and, with a signal to Jem, urged her horse to a brisker pace.

The journey that followed was never very clear to Margaret afterward. She rode doggedly, her mind too full for talk or observation. She let Jem find their road, and she did not even notice when the sun began to descend and the air cooled. It was nearly dark before the boy pulled up and indicated that they were approaching the village. “It ain’t nearly as far as I thought,” he added. “I was all over the countryside trying to find where you had gone. I must have rode four times the distance.”

“How much farther?” asked Margaret, looking around for a landmark in the gathering dusk.

“Only ’bout a mile.”

“Let us go on, then.”

In a short while they were riding along the lane toward the Red Lion. The windows were lit, and Margaret strained to see a familiar figure, but no one appeared. Jem took charge of her horse when she slid off, and she hurried into the inn, only to nearly collide with Mrs. Appleby, who was starting up the stairs with a heavy tray. “
Miss
,” cried the latter. “You have come, then.”

“As soon as Jem found me. Why did you not write?”

The landlady again told the story of the papers.

“Papa. How could he?”

“Where is that barley water?” called Mrs. Dowling from above.

“Coming,” replied Mrs. Appleby, moving again.

Margaret followed her. “How is he? Jem said he had a fever.”

“He has that. Carrie Dowling says he’s better, but I must say I can’t see it myself. His head is that hot.”

“Did he ask for me?”

“He can’t
ask
for no one, miss. He isn’t talking sense. But he does call out your name.”

Margaret took a deep breath. They reached the upper floor, and Mrs. Dowling came out of Keighley’s bedchamber to meet them. “So, you’re here,” she said to Margaret.

“I came at once.”

The old woman nodded. “You’ll do him good.”

Margaret had never heard pleasanter words. She felt suffused with a warmth that threatened to bubble over in highly inappropriate laughter.

“Let me have that barley water,” continued Mrs. Dowling. “He’s fair parched.”

They went into the room. Keighley lay on his back, breathing harshly. Margaret went over to him and put out a hand to brush back his dark hair. He was terribly pale, and his nostrils had a pinched look. Now and then he murmured a broken phrase too soft to understand. “How is he, really?” Margaret whispered.

“He’s bad,” replied Mrs. Dowling. “He pulled that shoulder out, and then he was lying in the storm for a day and a night.”

“Will he be all right?”

“I hope so, miss. You can help him, I think.”

“I will do
anything
. I can nurse him.”

“It’s not so much that. He calls for you, you see.”

Margaret smiled tremulously.

“And I thought that if you were here to answer him, he might rest easier. He thrashes around so sometimes that I worry his shoulder will never heal.”

“I will do whatever you say.”

Mrs. Dowling nodded, smiling slightly. “Well, just now you can sit down over there. You’ll see what I mean when he speaks.”

She did as she was told, but for two hours nothing happened except that Mrs. Dowling changed the compresses on Keighley’s forehead and tried to get him to swallow barley water. Then, as eleven o’clock approached, their patient became restless. His head rolled back and forth on the pillow, and his inarticulate muttering got louder.

“There he goes,” said Mrs. Dowling. “You come and talk to him, miss. See if you can calm him.”

Margaret bent over the bed. “Sir Justin,” she said softly. “Justin?”

Her voice seemed to have no effect, and he continued to shift uneasily. Then, without warning, he stiffened and cried, “
Margaret. No
.”

The girl did not need Mrs. Dowling’s signal. She bent closer and said, “It’s all right. Everything is all right. I’m here.”

There was an instant’s silence, then to her amazement, Keighley opened his eyes and gazed into hers. “Margaret?”

She took his hand, which lay limply on the counterpane. “Yes. I’m here. Everything is all right.”

“Mistake,” murmured Keighley weakly.

“Don’t worry. You must think only of getting well.”

“Don’t leave,” he gasped out.

“I shan’t. I shall stay right here until you are better.”

He smiled shakily, then lapsed into unconsciousness once more.