A Radical Arrangement Read online

  “I told him you were my brother.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh, and I said your name was Harry Camden. I…I didn’t want…”

  “Very resourceful. Should it get back to the squire’s son, I daresay he will be pleased with the imputation that he was shot by an unknown female.”

  “I said highwaymen did it. And that they stole our luggage. Harry won’t hear. The Camdens are quite a distance off. I couldn’t think of another name in a hurry.”

  “Couldn’t you? You have alarming lapses of intelligence, do you not?”

  “I did my best!”

  “God help us. And I suppose you do not see that your clumsy fabrication traps you here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is my sister likely to abandon me to my valet, whom I meant to summon? That would cause enough talk to spread the story far beyond this place, whatever it is. And if you stay, I cannot send for anyone else, for I do not want to be recognized here with you. Can you really be so simple as not to see all this?” He frowned up at her with an effort, clearly at the end of his spurt of energy. “Or was this whole thing a plot to entrap me? I warn you it won’t work.”

  “Entrap you? I wouldn’t have you if you begged on your knees.”

  “Good. Because I won’t be caught so, my girl. I shall marry at my own choice, and it won’t be a wide-eyed schoolroom chit.”

  “I pity the woman you do chose.” And with these words, Margaret stormed out of the room. Let him nurse himself, the odious man. He was every bit as bad as her mother had told her.

  Six

  Margaret was down by the seawall before she calmed enough to marvel at her own behavior. She had argued heatedly with a near stranger, a man whom, only two days ago, she had thought she feared. And she never argued with anyone. What had come over her? It had happened almost automatically; she had not thought, she had simply reacted. But what was it about Justin Keighley that made her do so? He no longer terrified her, but somehow he roused emotions stronger than she had ever experienced and prompted behavior completely unlike her previous pattern. How could he? And why?

  She sat down on the wall and gazed out over the water. It didn’t make sense. One’s character could not change overnight, could it? Margaret had always accepted others’, particularly her mother’s, opinion of her. She thought of herself as a quiet, unassuming girl of no more than average gifts. Now, suddenly, it was as if the person she knew were being swept away, and she was not at all certain she liked the feeling or the new Margaret who seemed to be emerging. She sighed. One thing, at least, was unquestionably true: she disliked Sir Justin Keighley intensely and bitterly resented his intrusion into her life.

  “Excuse me, miss?” said a tentative young voice.

  Margaret looked around to find a boy of twelve or thirteen standing before her, his cloth cap in his hands. “Yes?”

  “Ma said you came down here. I’m to fetch you. The doctor’s just come.”

  “Oh.” She rose.

  “We’d ’ave been back sooner, but he was out when I got to his house.”

  “Did you go?” asked Margaret wonderingly. The boy did not seem old enough to be sent such a distance alone.

  “Yes, miss. I be Jem Appleby, you know.”

  “Mrs. Appleby’s son, yes. She told me she was sending you. But I didn’t know you were so young.”

  “I’m thirteen! In two years I shall go to sea with the fishing boats, like my brother Bob.”

  “But what about your schooling?”

  Jem looked disdainful. “I’ve finished with school. I can read and write a treat, I can.”

  Margaret gazed at him; though she had sometimes chatted with her maid, who probably came from a family like Jem’s, they had never talked of the other girl’s life. Jem Appleby was a new type for Margaret. “Do you want to go to sea?” she asked.

  The boy raised incredulous blue eyes to hers. “’Course I do. Who wouldn’t?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, girls.” He shrugged.

  Smiling a little, Margaret watched him as they walked back up the hill to the Red Lion. Jem was a small lad, but wiry and work-toughened. He had curly brown hair, round red cheeks, and a snub nose, and his clothes, though well kept by his mother, showed the effects of hard usage. “What do you do now?” she asked him. “Do you help at the inn?”

  He nodded without much enthusiasm. “I see to the horses.”

  “You don’t care for that?”

  “Nah. They’re stupid beasts. Are we to stop for old Mrs. Dowling? Ma told me to ask.”

  With a start, Margaret remembered their errand. “Oh, yes, I suppose we should. The doctor will want to speak to her. Where is…”

  “There,” replied Jem smugly, pointing to a cottage just up the hill from where they stood. “I came this way on purpose.”

  “Very clever. You are a good navigator.”

  He grinned, showing a generous mouthful of white teeth. “You should see me on the water. When I can get out, anyway.”

  “Do you have a boat?” queried Margaret, surprised.

  Before answering, Jem cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Mrs. Dowling, Doctor’s come.” Then he turned back and said, “It’s not much. A dinghy. But I’ve rigged her up with a sail and all. She runs before the wind well enough.”

  “I should like to see it. Does it have a name?”

  “She’s the Gull,” he replied, partly instructing, partly pleased by her interest. “Perhaps I’ll take you—”

  “A fine way to go on,” interrupted Mrs. Dowling, appearing in the doorway of her cottage. “Shouting in the street instead of knocking like a civilized person. I’ll be telling your mother of this, young Jemmy.”

  Jem shrugged and grimaced. “Doctor’s come,” he said again.

  “Aye. I heard you. So did everyone else in the village, I’ll be bound. Are we waiting for them?”

  “Nah.” Jem ducked his head and hurried up the hill toward the tavern. Margaret followed more slowly with Mrs. Dowling.

  “That’s a pesky lad,” complained the latter. “Mad for the sea. Reckon he’ll be drowned, like so many of ’em are.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  Mrs. Dowling peered up at her from under her bushy white brows. “Do you fear bad luck? Nay, I know better than that. But the sea takes most of our men hereabouts.”

  Margaret stole a look over her shoulder. The water below was calm, but she could not restrain a small shiver of apprehension. Why did Jem Appleby want to join the fishing fleets? A job in his father’s inn seemed much pleasanter to her.

  Mrs. Appleby met them at the door of the Red Lion. “Doctor’s upstairs with him now,” she said. “I told him you’d be right along, miss.”

  “Thank you. I… Did you notice if my brother was…”

  “He’s gone off again.” The woman smiled a little. “I suppose your quarrel tired him out.” When Margaret looked stricken, she added, “Brothers and sisters always quarrel, miss. It can’t have hurt him any.” She exchanged a look with Mrs. Dowling that Margaret probably would have found comforting if she had been paying any heed, but she was already at the foot of the stairs and starting up.

  “There.” Mrs. Appleby addressed Mrs. Dowling when Margaret had disappeared. “I told you they were all right. If you could have heard them going at it this morning.”

  “Over what?”

  “I couldn’t tell that. I don’t listen at keyholes. But they were scrapping like they’d done it all their lives.”

  “Humph,” answered Mrs. Dowling, starting slowly up the stairs.

  The doctor was not what Margaret had expected. Her own family practitioner was a jovial, white-haired gentleman she had known as long as she could remember, but the Falmouth doctor was a young man, dressed very fashionably, with a haughty manner.

 
“Are you the sister?” he asked when Margaret came in.

  She nodded. “How is he?” She could see that Keighley had lapsed into unconsciousness again since their talk, and from the look of him, the exchange had exhausted all his meager resources.

  “Not good,” replied the doctor. “The wound is not serious in itself, but he is very weak. He must have lost quite a bit of blood.”

  His tone was so critical that Margaret started to apologize, but she was forestalled by Mrs. Dowling’s voice from the door. “Aye, that he did,” she agreed. “They had a time getting him down here from the road.”

  “Who are you?” inquired the man coldly, looking Mrs. Dowling up and down.

  “Th-this is Mrs. Dowling,” stammered Margaret. “She was kind enough to treat my brother. She took out the bullet. Mrs. Dowling, this is Dr.…”

  “Brice,” he finished. “You removed the ball from his shoulder?”

  Mrs. Dowling nodded, a wicked grin on her wrinkled face.

  Dr. Brice closed his black bag with a snap. “I don’t see what there is for me to do in that case,” he added.

  “B-but can you not look at him?” asked Margaret. “Tell me if I am doing the right things? I am very worried.”

  Slightly mollified, the doctor turned a shoulder to Mrs. Dowling and answered, “I have examined him. He is weak, as I said. He needs rest and, as soon as possible, sustaining soups and whatever food he can take. If there is no infection, he should recover in a few weeks. He seems a strong specimen.”

  “How can I keep off infection?” asked Margaret.

  He shrugged. “Keep the wound clean. Do not allow him to strain it in any way.” Mrs. Dowling chuckled, and he stiffened alarmingly. “I must go. It is a very long ride to Falmouth.” His tone implied that he had made it for nothing.

  “But…” began Margaret.

  “I have many calls on my time,” he added.

  Meeting his rather hard brown eyes, she nodded. “I see. What do we owe you?”

  “One guinea.”

  “What?” screeched Mrs. Dowling. “For what? You didn’t do nothing.”

  The doctor fixed her with an icy gaze. “I am a London-trained physician…madam. And I rode more than an hour to get here. The fee is moderate, considering.”

  “It’s barefaced robbery,” retorted Mrs. Dowling. “The gentleman’s already been shot by highwaymen.”

  “Please,” protested Margaret, who had fetched the money by this time. She handed it to the doctor. “Thank you for coming.” Mrs. Dowling, outraged, was about to speak again, but Margaret waved her to silence. Dr. Brice bowed coldly and strode out.

  “Young jackass,” muttered the midwife. “I’ve seen his like time and again. Think they know everything when they can hardly birth a baby without the mother doing all the work.”

  Privately Margaret agreed with her. Dr. Brice had been singularly unhelpful. But she did not want to fall into a long discussion of his shortcomings. “How does my brother look to you?” she asked. “He was awake for a while this morning, but now…”

  “Aye. When you quarreled,” agreed Mrs. Dowling. At Margaret’s wince, she added, “It won’t have done him any harm, miss. It’s good for men to quarrel—keeps them occupied. It’s not unnatural for a wounded man to wake and then go off again. It may happen more than once.”

  “I see.” Margaret watched as Mrs. Dowling examined Keighley.

  “He’s a bit better, I think. You should get something inside him as soon as may be. Flossie Appleby will have some broth on.”

  “I’ll get a bowl.”

  “No use till he wakes again, but give him some then. I’ll come by tomorrow, if you like.”

  “Please do.”

  The midwife nodded and turned away. Margaret heard her slow steps descending the stairs as she sat down in the armchair by the window once again. No matter what they said, she felt a little guilty for having quarreled with Keighley. However exasperating the man was, he was also wounded and weak. She should have humored him. But when she thought again of some of the things he had said to her, her fists clenched. One couldn’t ignore such remarks. In the future she would simply have to keep their conversations off personal matters. They could talk about the weather or politics, but not about themselves. Picking up some sewing she had laid aside hours ago, one of her garments that had been badly torn while lying in the road, she settled down to a quiet afternoon, putting her dispute with Sir Justin firmly from her mind.

  The patient did not wake again that day. But his breathing sounded more like sleep than before, and Margaret was not seriously worried. At dinnertime she was relieved by Annie Appleby, and went downstairs to eat. Afterward she strolled outside and down the twisting lane to the shore. The sun was setting behind the cliff, throwing long, thin shadows across the golden sea, and there was a soft breeze scented with blossoms. Margaret walked along the seawall again, in the opposite direction from yesterday, and enjoyed the calm beauty of the scene. She noticed a small boat out on the water, with a single triangular sail and one lone occupant. Leaning on the wall to watch for a moment, she realized the sailor was Jem Appleby, and she waved to him. He responded briefly, then turned back to the management of his sail and tiller. He was headed for the mouth of the shallow bay on which the village stood. Margaret followed the progress of the tiny craft for several minutes—Jem appeared to be having a fine time as it dipped and wobbled in the waves—then she went on until she had reached the end of the village houses. Here, where the road curved back inland, there were steps set into the wall leading down to the beach. Glancing over her shoulder, Margaret saw that there was at least a half hour of light left, so she descended and continued her walk along the sand. The stony cliff rose to her right, and the waves murmured on the other side. A flowering vine that she did not recognize spilled orange blossoms over the rocks above her head. All in all, it was a beautiful place, and she dawdled a bit looking at it.

  Coming around an outcropping of stone, she discovered that the village bay was not the only one nearby. Here was a much smaller indentation, hardly thirty feet across but very deeply cut into the cliff and into the sea bottom. Everything was in shadow now, but she turned to walk along it anyway, for she could hear the sound of a stream from the back.

  There were more growing things in this sheltered spot, and as she pushed through a row of bushes Margaret found what she sought. A trickle of water, too slight to be called a fall, wet the cliff and fell into a rock pool above the level of the sea. It was surrounded by moss and overhung by one slender tree and the vine she had seen before. It seemed the loveliest place Margaret had ever seen. She knelt, oblivious of her gown, and gazed into the clear water. Her wavering reflection there showed an unfamiliar smile of delight, and she realized that she had never before gone exploring alone and found a secret spot. She took a deep breath, savoring the bouquet of scents around her. She felt wonderful.

  Margaret lingered by the pool until it was nearly dark and left it reluctantly even then. But she told herself she would come back every day, without fail. At the Red Lion all was well, and she prepared for bed in a much better humor than she had last night. Her situation was still far from satisfactory, but somehow she minded it less. Something seemed to be happening to her. She had thought this morning that the change was unfortunate, but now she was no longer sure. If the new Margaret had evenings like this one, she might be a person well worth knowing after all.

  Seven

  Several days passed peacefully. Sir Justin slept most of the time, waking only briefly to eat or sometimes murmur a few sentences. At first Margaret feared that he had taken a fever, but Mrs. Dowling assured her that he was merely weak and would soon recover more fully. In the meantime, he did not require constant watching. If someone was within call, as they always were at the small tavern, it was enough. Thus Margaret found herself with a good deal of unoccupied time. She sat with Keighl
ey part of the day, but she also walked, always stopping at her newfound hideaway, and often going on more than two miles along the shore.

  She had been a sedentary girl, but here there were no books to read and no mother to find indoor tasks for her. Her usually negligible appetite improved with the exercise and with Mrs. Appleby’s good, simple food, as did her color. By the end of her first week in the village, Margaret’s cheeks were redder than they had ever been, and her figure more rounded. Indeed, her mother might have looked twice before she recognized her overthin, pale, withdrawn daughter in this carefree, bright-eyed young woman. With no immediate worries, Margaret discovered a new pleasure in the present. Sometime she would have to make decisions, but for now she felt unfettered and surprisingly pleased with herself.

  This idyllic mood was broken at the beginning of the second week. When she entered Keighley’s bedchamber that morning, she found him fully conscious again, propped up on pillows, and not in the best of humors. “So, you are still here,” he said when she came in. “I thought perhaps you had left me to the care of our rustic hosts’ daughter.”

  “Annie offered to sit with you at night,” she replied. “She has nursed before. She is very skillful.”

  Keighley shrugged, then winced at the pain in his shoulder. “And you continue to play the ministering sister, I suppose?” he added irritably. “What a ridiculous farce.”

  Hoping to avoid a dispute, Margaret said nothing.

  But her silence merely goaded him further. “What is the date?” he snapped. And when she told him, he cursed.

  “We have had a doctor,” she added soothingly. “He said you will be all right after a…while.”

  “Weeks,” responded Keighley savagely. “I know more than you do about gunshot wounds. I feel weak as a blasted kitten, and I shan’t be able to ride for at least two weeks. You spare no pains when you meddle in a man’s life.”

  Against her best resolves, Margaret began to be angry. “I? I didn’t meddle. It was you who did that. Why didn’t you simply let me escape from home, as I wished to?”