A Radical Arrangement (10 page)

“No need,” replied Keighley raspingly.

“Nonsense. I will go. You sit here and wait for us.”

“No!”

His tone was so sharp that she stopped in midstride.

“I can get back on my own. I won’t be fetched like some invalid. It was just the stairs.”

Margaret eyed him. His breathing was easier now, but he was still alarmingly white. “You have a serious wound,” she began.

“I can walk back to the inn,” he interrupted. “I
must
recover my strength, and I shall never do so lying on my back.”

“Nor by overtaxing yourself before you are ready,” she retorted tartly.

“I am ready.” He straightened and moved away from the wall. “Go on ahead if you like. I shall be along directly.”

With an angry sigh, she came to take his elbow again. “Of course I am likely to leave you here, aren’t I? How stubborn you are. Come along.”

With a wry smile, he allowed her to guide him down the cobbled road to the lane that led up to the inn.

“Won’t you wait here?” pleaded Margaret then. “This climb is longer than the stairs. I’ll get Mr. Appleby.”

Grimly he shook his head.

Margaret sighed again. If he would not promise to stay still, she could not leave him. She tightened her grip on his elbow. “Very well.”

They had not covered half the distance when Keighley suddenly swayed against her, dropping his walking stick with a clatter.

Margaret threw an arm about his waist to support the added weight and cried, “What is it?”

“Shoulder,” he murmured, putting a hand to his wound.

Desperately she looked about for help. But they were in a section of road without doorways, and there were no pedestrians in sight. Mustering all her strength, she inserted her shoulder in Sir Justin’s unhurt armpit and said, “Put your arm about my shoulders. It is not much farther.”

He did so, and they went on slowly in this way. He was breathing heavily again, and Margaret was terribly afraid she would fail him and let him fall. He was so heavy. She took another step, and another, more and more conscious of his ribs against her heaving breast, his muscular arm across her shoulders. She tried to look up at his face, to gauge his condition, but a fold of his coat obscured her eyes and she got only a breath of his scent, compounded of leather, tobacco, and something unfamiliar.

They came around a corner, and Margaret saw Jemmy a little ahead, skipping back in their direction. “Jemmy,” she shouted, “get your father. Quickly!”

After one round-eyed glance, the boy turned and pelted off toward the inn.

“There,” said Margaret. “Soon we will have help.”

“Wanted to make it on my own,” muttered Keighley.

“It was too soon, that is all. Come, will you sit on that bench?”

“No. Stand.”

Though she found his insistence incomprehensible, Margaret could not argue with him. But she did stop walking. Pressed together, they swayed in the middle of the street waiting for aid to arrive. Keighley seemed hardly aware of their surroundings, but Margaret found her perceptions unusually sharp in the slow minutes she supported his sagging frame.

She had wondered before at the unaccustomed emotions Keighley roused in her, emotions of a strength she had never experienced. That most of them had been negative feelings—anger, exasperation, pique—did not lessen her perplexity. But now she felt something new. Beneath her sharp concern for her patient’s condition, some unidentifiable stirring lurked. It was not an emotion, or at least none she recognized, but some hitherto-untouched part of her seemed to be awakening. The sensation confused her and kept her silent as they stood together on the hot stones.

She felt keenly that she needed time to herself to think. The changes in her appearance and situation were being echoed by alterations in her opinions and outlook, but she had not yet examined and understood the latter, and this made her uneasy. She knew that she
had
hated and feared Sir Justin Keighley. But she was fairly certain that those feelings were now gone forever. What had replaced them? This was by no means as clear. He could still make her blazingly angry, and she still found his political position unconvincing. But the man himself—she didn’t know what she thought of him. Standing there with her arm about his waist and his side pressed against hers, she found this question both unanswerable and vitally important.

Sir Justin had to spend the rest of that day and all of the following one in bed, unable to come downstairs for dinner. Margaret, worried, called in Mrs. Dowling, who shook her head and scolded her patient soundly but told the girl that she needn’t be really concerned. “He’s just worn himself out, dearie, as men will do. He’ll be all right once he rests.”

Thus reassured, Margaret slept soundly through the night, but when she entered Keighley’s room the next morning, his pallor alarmed her anew, and his manner when she bid him good day added to her concern. He seemed uncharacteristically listless.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

He half shrugged, moving only his uninjured shoulder.

“Can I get you anything?”

He shook his head apathetically.

“Are you sure? You look so…so tired. Perhaps I should send for Mrs. Dowling to have another look at you.”

“There is no need for that.”

Margaret frowned at him. She had never heard him speak with so little force or interest. He seemed not to care what happened, which was not at all like him.

“Shall I get the cards?” she ventured, thinking to arouse irritation, at least. “I have counted them, and the jack of hearts
is
missing, but I made a substitute.”

“I don’t think I’m up to cards today.”

“Not up to playing with
me
, you mean. But I have been practicing.” She tried a smile, but he did not respond. “Oh, what is the matter? You are feeling worse, aren’t you? I shall go for Mrs. Dowling at once.” She half rose.

“I am feeling just as I did yesterday afternoon,” he replied savagely, “hardly able to lift my head from the pillow. It is intolerable!”

Margaret sank back into the armchair. “But Mrs. Dowling said it was nothing but overexertion. It will pass off in a day or so. You merely tried to do too much too soon.”

“Too much,” he echoed bitterly. “Do you know that this has never happened to me in my life before? I have never found my strength inadequate to anything I wished to undertake, and it galls me beyond bearing.”

“But…you were wounded. You cannot expect to be well in a moment. It is only natural that you should be weak.”

“It is not natural to
me
.” He paused and almost seemed to grind his teeth. “Yesterday, coming up that hill, I actually
could
not
make it. It was not a matter of will—my body failed me. It has
never
done so before.”

Margaret found the intensity of his tone strange. Of course it must be annoying to feel so weak, but it was only temporary. “Well, I daresay you have never been shot before,” she replied. “Mrs. Dowling says that you will be able to get up again tomorrow, for a short time, and then—”

“That is completely beside the point,” he snapped. “Oh, why do I waste my time talking to you? You understand nothing.” He turned his head away from her.

Margaret frowned at him again. “Perhaps not. But I would like to. Won’t you tell me what you mean?”

There was a silence as he considered her request. He was tired, too tired to resist the comfort of sharing his frustrations with another human being, even when he knew he should not encourage any closeness between them. He sighed. “I am accustomed to being in control of my life,” he began. “I go where I please. I do and say what I please. I follow only my own inclinations. Now, suddenly, all that is at an end. I am confined to this wretched bed, this inn, this village. There is little to amuse me, and what there is I cannot do because of physical weakness. I can hardly
feed
myself today. Everything must be done for me. I must ask others for the smallest necessity. Can you not see how hard that is to endure?”

“I suppose so,” said Margaret slowly. “But we are glad to help you, you know.”

“Yes, indeed. It might be easier if you begrudged your service.”

She gazed at him in perplexity.

“Have you never felt chafed by others’ direction?” he added. “I have all my life. I have never allowed anyone to control me.”

Margaret smiled. “Never? What about your parents? Surely when you were small they guided you.”

Keighley’s expression relaxed a little. He shook his head. “My father, never. He did not even try. I think he lacked not only the wish but even the conception. He cared nothing for power over others. His sole passion was knowledge and ideas. My mother was another matter.” He smiled. “She used to box my ears now and then, and once I remember a thrashing. But I didn’t pay the least heed. I did what I wished and took the consequences gladly.”

“What a dreadful little boy you must have been.”

He laughed. “I know my sister thought so. But I suspect that was only because she was so like me. We never played together without quarreling over who should be chief and make the rules of the game.”

“Did you never wonder if your mother might know best?”

“No.” He laughed again.

Margaret pondered this alien vision of childhood. “How strange.
I
never considered that she mightn’t. I always did as I was told, without question. Why, do you suppose? I
ought
to have wondered.”

He shrugged. “A matter of temperament.”

“You mean I was born so? And you were born a…a radical?”

This time his laugh was hearty. “I suppose I was.”

She looked down at her hands in her lap. “It seems unfair. Why should one person be so docile and another so rebellious? I would have objected…if I had
thought
of it.”

Keighley surveyed her with a mixture of amusement and interest. “You did, finally.”

She met his hazel eyes. “I did—that’s right.”

He raised one black brow.

Margaret thought this over. “And if I could suddenly alter my behavior, surely you can tolerate a few days of a different sort of life. You might even enjoy them, if you let yourself.” She cocked her head and watched him inquiringly.

Sir Justin stared at her. The girl actually had a good point. He found her suggestion annoying, but he had to admit that there was something in it. Could this really be the same brainless chit he had set out to drag home? Could anyone change
that
much in such a short time?

Margaret burst out laughing. “You look stupefied,” she sputtered. “I never thought to see you silenced so thoroughly.”

“Did you not?”

She shook her head, still laughing.

“The sight does not appear to sadden you, however.”

“Oh, no. I think it must be very good for you—just like lying in bed for a day or so.”

“I see. And what other horrors are in store for me at your hands?”

“None,” responded Margaret cheerfully. “I have found that one must take these changes slowly. And do you know what I have just remembered?”

“I hesitate to ask.”

“Your books. Didn’t Jemmy bring back some books with the clothes from Falmouth?”

“By Jove, so he did. I had forgotten. How right I was to order them. And how fortunate that Falmouth boasts a bookseller. Let us have them brought up at once. There is something for you in the package as well.”

Margaret jumped up. “In that case, I’ll get them myself.”

She hurried out. Sir Justin gazed at the empty doorway and wondered if he was being dangerously foolish. If anyone had told him a month ago that he would trade intimate banter with a chit barely out of the schoolroom, he would have advised them kindly to give up strong spirits and take a rest cure. And yet it had seemed very natural as it was happening. It must be this damnable weakness that was making him behave so. He had to recover, as quickly as possible.

“Here they are,” called Margaret, returning with a large bundle wrapped in brown paper. She plumped it down on the table beside his bed and began to struggle with the knot.

“You need a knife,” said Keighley. “I think mine is on the washstand.”

She nodded and fetched it, cutting through the string in three places. The paper fell away to reveal two stacks of books. With a sigh of satisfaction, she knelt to examine them.

Keighley laboriously pushed himself straighter on the pillows. “There should be some novels and a history, and something else I ordered particularly for you.”

“What?” She had finished reading the titles in the first stack and was moving it to get to the second.

“I think you will recognize it when you come upon it.”

She kept scanning the volumes. “Oh. Not…is it this one?” She pulled out a fat, leather-bound book. “
An
Examination
of
the
Need
for
and
Principles
of
Reform
of
the
English
Governmental
System
.”

“That’s the one.” Their eyes met, and he laughed at her expression. “You needn’t read it if you don’t wish to, but after our discussion recently, I thought you might.”

Margaret looked longingly at the four novels on the table. She had never read any of them or, indeed, seen so many fictional works at one time in her parents’ house. But as she remembered the conversation he referred to, her brows drew together. “I suppose it was written by someone who agrees with your opinions?” she asked.

“Of course. I would hardly push your own back on you.”

“Well, I will read it, and I shall tell you what I think when I am done,” she said, almost belligerently.

“Splendid.”

“I daresay I won’t like it at all.”

“Probably not. But one never knows. You have been advocating change in an astonishingly radical way.”

Margaret opened her mouth to protest, then smiled instead. “That is not precisely the same thing.”

“Is it not?”

“No.” She was sure it wasn’t, but not certain why.

He gestured dismissively. “Let’s see what you say when you have finished the book.”

She clutched the volume to her chest, gazing down at it uneasily. It was very long.

“You’ll want to start at once, I suppose. And I have been wanting to read this novel for weeks.” With an effort, he reached out and took a book from the top of one stack. “We will spend a quiet, profitable morning in study.”

Margaret eyed him suspiciously, but he returned her glance with no hint of mockery. At last she nodded and turned toward the door.

“We can discuss the first part over luncheon,” he added. “I shall look forward to it.”

Margaret merely tossed her head and left the room, making Keighley smile and suppress a laugh.

She read dutifully for an hour in the parlor downstairs, but the book was heavy going. The author would make an interesting point and then, so it seemed to Margaret, go on for pages about mostly irrelevant incidents in order to prove it. She began skipping over paragraphs, and finally whole pages, and at last she put the book down and rose to stretch wearily.

She went to the parlor window. It was another sunny day; they had had a long period of fine weather. With a guilty glance at the book on the sofa, Margaret decided she would go out for a walk—a short one.

She went down to the seawall and along the route they had taken yesterday. Jemmy’s boat was no longer in the inlet. She sat for a while beside her pool, then turned back. She should read a little more before luncheon, though Keighley had surely been joking when he said they would discuss it.

When she reached the lane that led back up toward the inn, Margaret remembered something that caused her to take another turning. She had not been back to speak to Mrs. Dowling, and she still wanted to see her, for several reasons. She found the old woman’s cottage without trouble and knocked on the door. It was opened by an attractive, smiling woman of about forty with red-brown hair and sparkling brown eyes. Margaret blinked in surprise and momentary disorientation. Had she come to the wrong house? But this woman resembled Mrs. Dowling; in fact, for a moment it seemed that she was seeing Mrs. Dowling as she had been—or perhaps as she really was.

This illusion was dispelled when the woman said, “Hello. You must be the young lady at the Red Lion. Mother was telling me about you. Come in. I hope there’s no trouble?”

“N-no. I was just, er, coming to see Mrs. Dowling.”

“Isn’t that kind. She’ll be happy to have you, I’m sure. She stepped out for a moment, but she’ll be back directly. Come in and sit down.” Seeing Margaret’s dazed look, she added, “I’m her daughter, you know. I’m here for a visit from Falmouth, where I live.”

“Oh, yes. How do you do?”

“I’m afraid I’ve promised to see some friends just now, but as I said, Mother will be back in a moment. If you wouldn’t mind waiting alone?”

“No, not at all.” Margaret was too flustered to do anything but agree.

“Good. It’ll only be a bit.” And with a pleasant nod, the woman picked up her bonnet and departed.

When she was gone, Margaret stared bemusedly at the wall. What a strange feeling that had been—when she thought she was facing a younger Mrs. Dowling. Why had she reacted that way? It was logical that Mrs. Dowling should have children and that they should visit her—yes, and resemble her too. Why should she jump to such absurd conclusions? Margaret realized then that her first visit to Mrs. Dowling had radically altered her view of the woman. Instead of thinking of her as an old witch, a silliness she was now heartily ashamed of, she now saw her as a wiser, older woman, rather like her daughter had appeared. How strange that such a change should come after one talk.

Footsteps sounded outside, the latch rattled, and Mrs. Dowling herself came in. When she saw Margaret, she smiled. “Well, now, miss. And I expected to find the place empty when I came back. This
is
pleasant.”

Margaret had stood at her entrance. “I just stopped in on my way… Your daughter said I might wait.”

“Did you meet Carrie, then?” replied the old woman, removing her black bonnet. “She’s a fine girl—my eldest. Can I get you some tea?”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

Mrs. Dowling eyed her. “Let’s go out back. The sun’s not too hot yet.”

Margaret followed her onto the terrace, and they sat on the low wall looking out over the sea.