A Radical Arrangement

by Ashford, Jane

  “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.

  With a new determination visible in the set of her shoulders and the expression on her face, Margaret rose and poured out a glass of barley water from the jug standing on the night table. She was supposed to get Keighley to drink as much of it as he would. She might as well start.

  Five

  The terrible night that followed broke down Margaret’s resolution. Though she was shown another neat bedchamber by Mrs. Appleby and lent a crisp nightdress by one of her daughters, she made no use of either. For Keighley showed signs of increasing illness through the evening, and she was afraid to leave him after dinner. He did not regain consciousness, but he thrashed about in the bed muttering incoherent phrases, obviously in great pain. And his forehead, when she touched it, seemed on fire. Alone in the empty hours of early morning, while everyone in the village slept, Margaret concluded that she could not face another such time. She would have to find help. She knew nothing of nursing, and it seemed to her that Keighley must die of his wound if he were left to her care. Indeed, she was terrified once or twice in the night that he was dying.

  Soon after dawn, Mrs. Appleby tapped on the door with a pot of steaming tea. “How is he?” she whispered, shaking her head at Keighley’s appearance and at Margaret’s.

  “Not good,” replied the girl. “I really think we must send someone for the doctor as soon as possible. I don’t know what to do for him.”

  Mrs. Appleby nodded. “My youngest son will be home today. He’s been visiting his grandmother. He can ride to Falmouth.”

  “Thank you.”

  The older woman eyed her. “You haven’t slept, miss. I told you to call me if you needed someone to watch him.”

  “I didn’t like to trouble you. And in any case…”

  “Well, me or one of my girls will sit with him now. You must eat something and then sleep a bit. It won’t help matters if you make yourself ill.”

  Wearily Margaret agreed. Keighley had quieted with the coming of dawn. “But I am too restless to sleep,” she replied. “I think I will go out and walk a little. I shan’t be long.”

  “You must take some breakfast first.”

  “Perhaps when I come back. But if one of you could sit with…my brother, I would be very grateful.”

  Mrs. Appleby nodded, looking concerned, and in a few moments Margaret found herself outside the tavern door, in a borrowed shawl, and looking down over the roofs of the village. Gilded with sunrise, they looked almost beautiful, and she stood still a moment to watch the morning brighten above the sea. It was a clear summer day, with the promise of heat.

  Finding a pathway—half alley, half stair—leading down, she walked the short distance to the seawall, which was a sturdy gray stone construction rising fifteen feet above the beach. A cobbled road behind the top curved around the village and back inshore on either side; at the bottom a narrow stretch of sand was washed by small waves.

  Margaret took deep breaths of the sea air and soon found herself enough refreshed to appreciate the beauty of her surroundings. Her parents’ land in Devon was in the midst of rich green farm country, and it was lovely. But this was a different landscape, one that attracted her more. She walked the whole half circle of the seawall. Nearly every house had a small garden planted with flowering shrubs and vines that clambered over the walls and roofs. The warming sun caused their scents to fill the air. As she stood at the shore and looked up, the whole village seemed like some fairy-tale castle of white tiers and blossoms.

  Margaret strolled about for more than an hour before she guiltily remembered her responsibilities and returned to the Red Lion, where she found a plentiful breakfast waiting, and Mrs. Appleby insisted she eat before going up to Keighley again. “Jemmy got back just now,” she told the girl. “I sent him along for the doctor. Can’t expect them before afternoon, but I’ve hopes they’ll come then.” She grimaced. “I’ve sent word there’s a gentleman ill—that should bring him.”

  Margaret looked anxious.

  “Don’t you be worriting. Annie’s with him now. She nursed her sisters and brothers through the ague two winters ago. She’s a fine nurse. Never lost a one, we didn’t.”

  This sounded hopeful. “Do you think,” ventured Margaret, “that she would be willing to share the nursing with me? I would pay her something, of course, for her trouble.”

  “You must ask her that. But I’m sure she’d be willing. And a bit of extra money wouldn’t come amiss. Annie’s to marry Jack Thompson in the autumn and set up her own house.”

  “I’ll ask her at once,” said Margaret, rising from the table. “Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Appleby.”

  “It’s little we’ve done. You should have fetched me in the night. I meant to wake on my own, but I was that tired.”

>   “It was all right,” Margaret lied.

  “Shall we have Mrs. Dowling again before the doctor?”

  “She said she would come today.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Appleby started to clear off the table. “I’ve put some broth on the hob. Perhaps the gentleman can take some later on.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Margaret returned to Keighley’s room to find him much the same as when she left. A brief conference with Annie established her willingness to help with the nursing, and they made arrangements to divide the time. Margaret was impressed with the girl’s calm competence. Though they were probably about the same age, Annie seemed much better equipped to deal with the situation.

  By the time they finished, Mrs. Dowling had arrived to check her patient. Her assessment was more optimistic than Margaret expected, though she was not offended to hear that the doctor had been sent for. “A bit of fever’s bound to come with that sort of wound,” she assured Margaret. “Might last awhile too. Never can tell. He looks a strong man, though. He’ll do. Don’t let the doctor bleed him, mind.”

  “Bleed him—he has lost too much blood already.”

  Mrs. Dowling chuckled, her shrewd blue eyes twinkling. “These doctors have their ways, miss. Perhaps I’ll come by while he’s here.” She looked at Margaret sidelong.

  “Yes, indeed, you should. You can tell him more than I about the wound.”

  The midwife seemed surprised but pleased. However, she replied only, “Keep the wet cloths on his head and let him drink whenever he will. And don’t worry, child, he’s not like to die.”

  Margaret reminded herself of this last several times during the course of the morning. Sir Justin did not thrash as much as he had in the night; on the contrary, he lay almost too still and breathed heavily and loudly. Every so often his black brows would draw together and he would murmur a few words, but she could never understand them. His forehead, when she changed the cloth, was always hot.

  Mrs. Appleby brought up a tray around one, and with it some news. “One of the lads found some ladies’ clothes and things scattered on the cliff road a mile or so off. I thought they might be yours, Miss Camden, so I told him to bring them here.”

  “Oh, yes.” Recollecting herself, Margaret added, “Was there a bandbox? And a…a blue dress?”

  “I don’t know, miss. I’ll call you when the things arrive.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. Perhaps the…the highwaymen dropped some of our luggage.”

  Nodding skeptically, Mrs. Appleby went out. Margaret turned to her luncheon tray and poured out a cup of tea from the pot. The food she left; she was not hungry after her substantial breakfast.

  She was just getting a second cup, and gazing out the window at the sea, when a weak voice murmured, “You.” Turning, she found Keighley’s hazel eyes open and regarding her.

  “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

  The man ignored this and continued to stare at her. Slowly Margaret’s face crimsoned. “Where are we?” croaked Sir Justin.

  “A…a village. A tavern. Th-the owners are very nice.”

  “Cornwall?”

  “Y-yes.” She wondered if he were still off his head. Where else could they be?

  “And is my memory possibly correct? Did you, in fact, shoot me?” His tone was coldly scornful.

  “It was an accident.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “You pointed a pistol at me and fired. Hardly a description of an accident.”

  “I was only trying to frighten you away. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Sir Justin’s chest rose and fell under the coverlet. He seemed to gather his energy before replying, “You are the most witless, whimpering ninnyhammer it has ever been my misfortune to encounter, even in a long series of London seasons, which abound in the species. Through your inexplicable, idiotic antics, I have been bored, annoyed, and now confined to a lumpy bed, in what appears to be a common alehouse, with a pistol ball in my shoulder. I am enduring considerable pain, and I suppose I will not be able to leave for some time. I can only hope that you are satisfied with this and do not contemplate any further mayhem. What are you doing here, by the by? I would have expected you to seize the opportunity to flee.”

  Stung, her cheeks hot, Margaret retorted, “I wish I had left you on the road. But since my shooting you was an accident, I of course summoned help and brought you to the nearest shelter. And if you think so little of me, I wonder that you came after me at all. Why did you not simply let me be?”

  “Would that I had.” Keighley shifted his weight and winced. “I must have taken leave of my senses to let a woman like your mother maneuver me into pursuit.”

  “M-mama?”

  “Yes. I can see now that it was just what she hoped for. Of course she would have sent someone else if I had not taken the bait.”

  “She is not coming after you?”

  He laughed shortly. “Oh, no. Your parents have abandoned you to your fate, according to her.”

  Some of Margaret’s color faded. “She was very angry with me.”

  “With good reason, no doubt.”

  Her chin came up. “I did not think so. And I must tell you, Sir Justin, that I still refuse to marry you. I will stay here until you are better, but then—”

  “You refuse to marry me?”

  She looked confused. “Yes. That is why I ran away. But you know that. Mama said I must, and I…I won’t.”

  Keighley was silent for a moment, frowning, then his mouth hardened. “I don’t suppose you’re joking? No, I can see you are not. Miss Mayfield, your mother is a scheming, shameless woman.”

  She stared at him.

  “Let me inform you,” he added, “that I absolutely refused to marry you when taxed with the obligation.”

  “You…but…”

  “Precisely. And I was told that you had run away from home because of that refusal, because I would not have you.”

  Margaret sprang to her feet, scarlet with rage and embarrassment. “What?”

  “I promise you it is true.” He frowned again. “Let us begin at the beginning. There is a great deal I do not understand. As far as I recollect, I met you for the first time at your parents’ dinner party. Had we met previously in London? I am abominably forgetful.”

  “No,” answered Margaret curtly.

  “Indeed. So we did not speak until I suggested a stroll in the garden, to which you, at least tacitly, agreed.”

  She started to protest then noticed that the conversation appeared to be tiring him. His face was paler, and his hand shook a little on the counterpane. “Should we talk now?” she wondered aloud. “You are still very ill.”

  “Thank you, but I should prefer to understand. And I am perfectly capable of speaking. We walked in the garden then, and I attempted a few polite remarks, to which you failed to respond. And then, for no reason I could discern, you appeared to run mad, clawing my coat and flinging yourself over a table to end unconscious on the ground. When I went to see what could be the matter, your parents came up and accused me of assault. Could you, Miss Mayfield, explain your behavior to me?”

  His sarcasm made Margaret forget her scruples about his health, but it was still difficult to tell him what she had thought that night. She saw now that she had been mistaken. “I…I thought you were taking me to the summerhouse,” she murmured, looking at the floor. “My father had locked it up because…because there had been…”

  “The usual escapades in a summerhouse,” finished Keighley. “I see. And what led you to imagine I would do such an idiotic thing? I am not famed for my polished manners, but I do retain certain remnants of decency.”

  Margaret wondered how to explain that she had been given such a derogatory picture of him that she expected any evil. “I…I had been given to understand,” she stammered, “that…that you wer
e not a proper person for me to know.”

  “Ah. Your mama again, I suppose?” She did not respond, but he nodded slightly. “I should have seen that. She has never missed an opportunity to criticize me elsewhere. So you expected me to be a blackguard? Perhaps you still do?”

  Margaret wanted to say that the way he spoke to her did not suggest anything better, but she held her tongue because of his wound.

  “And then your half-witted parents insisted you were compromised, as you were not, and that we must marry. Sensibly we both refused. However, you were not told that I had, and I was not told your views. Instead I was neatly maneuvered into chasing after you—and received a ball in the shoulder for my pains. You know, your mother should be the MP. I daresay she would be Prime Minister by this time.”

  “Well, I do not see why you came. I was perfectly all right.”

  “Indeed? And where did you think you were going?”

  “To…Penzance.”

  “And?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What did you expect to do there?” he added impatiently.

  Margaret was silent.

  “I see. Well, you must go back home, of course. Your mother can no doubt fabricate some excuse for your absence. And I—”

  “I can’t,” exclaimed the girl. The thought of returning home in disgrace was harrowing. “You need help.”

  “I shall get along. I have done so for a number of years without your assistance.”

  “But they said you require nursing, and I was going to—”

  “I have not compromised you up to now,” interrupted Keighley, “but if we stay together at this inn for any period of time, I would be hard put to defend myself from the accusation. And in any case, I do not want you here. I will send for someone to nurse me.”

  Margaret rose. “Certainly. I shall be more than glad to leave. I was only staying to make up for shooting you.” But she wouldn’t go home, she thought. She’d go on to Penzance.

  A thin smile curved his lips. “What did you find to tell the innkeeper? I wonder. Or have you left that to me?”