A Radical Arrangement

by Ashford, Jane

  This question was too close to Sir Justin’s own opinion to contest. But the truth of her point merely made him angrier at her. “We needn’t go over that again,” he replied bitingly. “What are we to do now?”

  Margaret looked at him. “Do?”

  “Do?” he echoed in a savagely mocking tone. “Must you repeat my words in that witless way?”

  She clenched her fists at her sides and strove to remember that this man was hurt. Probably his wound was paining him even now. She must try to control her temper, though all she wanted was to give him the sharpest set-down he had ever received in his life. “I did so,” she said carefully, “because I did not understand what you meant. I do not see that there is anything to be done until you are better.”

  “Do you not?” His tone remained bitterly sarcastic. “In other words, I am to lie here flat on my back and go slowly mad from boredom while you…” He paused and surveyed her. “What have you been doing? You look…better.”

  This was hardly complimentary, but it was less inflaming. “There is little to do in this village,” admitted Margaret. “I have walked on the beach a good deal.”

  “I see. Well, I can’t do that, thanks to you.”

  “To yourself,” she retorted, then hurriedly added, “There are some cards. I found them last night. Or we might talk. I know it is fatiguing to lie in bed all day. When I had a fever three years—”

  “Talk to you? I should be more amused staring at the ceiling. And I doubt you play cards any better than you converse. In my worst nightmares I never imagined being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a half-witted schoolgirl.”

  The rags of Margaret’s temper deserted her. The fact that Keighley was wounded, and irritable because of it, fled from her mind. She saw only that he was the most arrogant, unpleasant, dislikable man on earth. “Stare at the ceiling, then,” she cried. “I don’t care. I didn’t want you here. I didn’t want ever to see you again after that dreadful dinner party. Amuse yourself. I shan’t give the matter another thought.” And she turned and fled the room.

  Left alone, Justin Keighley did gaze pensively at the smooth white plaster above his bed. But what he saw was a pair of flashing blue eyes and a glowing, animated face surrounded by pale gold curls. Perhaps he had been wrong about the Mayfield chit. Though clearly not very intelligent, she did have some spirit after all. He sighed. He supposed he would have to be at least polite to her, and perhaps even endure a hand or two of cards, for she was his only source of amusement in this damnable situation, and he had always been distressingly prone to boredom. He sighed again, wondering if he should call her back. But it was too late and, besides, he had not come to that yet. She would be back and then he would…not apologize but exert some part of his not inconsiderable charm, enough to squeeze whatever diversion he could from an unpromising subject.

  Margaret had stormed down the stairs and out of the house into the July sunshine. She was so incensed that she strode right by the passage leading down to the sea, instead going along the road on the clifftop. She realized her mistake when she came to the point where this lane branched to join the main road on the left and to become a twisting village street on the other side. She took the latter; she would get to the beach the long way.

  Her temper was cooling. She was able now to shake her head at the strangeness of her plight. That she, Margaret Mayfield, should spend her days in noisy argument with Sir Justin Keighley was so unexpected, and astonishing, that she could hardly take it in. She thought of various acquaintances and what they would say if they knew and, unwillingly, a smile began to curve her lips.

  How her friends would gape. And her parents—they would flatly refuse to believe it. When she imagined their stunned faces, Margaret laughed aloud.

  “I’m glad to see ye so merry,” said a voice above her head. “Your brother must be better, then.”

  Startled, Margaret looked up. Her path had wound through the village to a point she recognized, and Mrs. Dowling leaned out of her cottage window overhead. “Tell the joke,” added the old woman. “I could use a laugh this morning, and no mistake.”

  “There’s no joke,” replied Margaret. “I was just…” And with this, she realized what she had been doing—laughing at her parents—and was silenced.

  “Well, well,” said Mrs. Dowling. “Wait a minute, and I’ll come down and let you in.”

  “Oh, no, I’m going to the beach,” answered Margaret, but Mrs. Dowling was already gone. She could hear the door latch being lifted. Margaret stirred uneasily. She had not quite gotten over her first reaction to Mrs. Dowling, despite the old woman’s help and patent goodwill. Every time she saw her, she was irresistibly reminded of a witch, and she could not shake off the notion that there was something sinister about her, though she had told herself a hundred times that this was silly.

  “Come in, come in,” urged Mrs. Dowling, holding her door open insistently. Margaret tried to make some excuse, but it was brushed aside, and she found herself in the cottage, being ushered through a narrow hall to the back of the building. “We’ll sit outside,” added her hostess. “It bain’t hot yet.”

  She opened another door at the rear of the house and waved Margaret through. At the threshold, the girl paused and drew in a startled breath. Mrs. Dowling’s simple cottage was graced with a tiny terrace at the back, a simple flagged square bordered by a low stone wall on three sides. Flowering shrubs in pots sat on this wall, and the ocean spread out far below in a gorgeous panorama. It was the last sort of place she would have expected to find here, and she turned to look at the old woman with new eyes.

  “This is where I hang my laundry,” said the latter complacently as she followed Margaret out. “And we used to sit here of an evening, Bob and me, afore he died.”

  “Y-your husband?”

  She nodded. “And a good one too. He was lost off a fishing boat in ninety-nine. He liked this place, he did.” She looked around the terrace. “Took care of the flowers.”

  Fascinated, Margaret followed her glance, all her ideas about Mrs. Dowling undergoing hurried revision. “It’s lovely.”

  “It is that.” Mrs. Dowling moved to the wall and sat down next to a bush of scarlet blossoms. She patted the stone next to her. “Sit here, dearie. I’ve som’at to say to you.”

  Surprised, Margaret obeyed.

  Her hostess did not speak at once, but rather looked out to sea as if she had forgotten her request. Finally she said, “Men be odd creatures. Very odd.”

  Margaret stared at her, and Mrs. Dowling turned slightly and met her eyes. “They don’t think like us,” she continued. “They get a maggot in their heads and run mad over a thing that any woman would shrug off in an instant. How I used to laugh at my Bob—when he wasn’t looking, of course—and how we used to brangle about some of his odd notions.”

  “D-did you?” Margaret was at a loss.

  “That we did.” Mrs. Dowling grinned, and Margaret had a sudden vision of a much younger woman with wicked, dancing eyes. “And how we made up for it afterward!”

  Margaret’s eyes grew wider. No one had ever spoken to her like this about men, certainly not her mother. Indeed, she had formed very few opinions about the sex beyond the stark division between good and bad inculcated very early. But Mrs. Dowling’s remarks and tone seemed to imply that there was a great deal more to know, and Margaret found herself intrigued. “Your husband was a fisherman?” she asked, trying to encourage the woman to go on without seeming too eager.

  Mrs. Dowling merely nodded, and the girl could not immediately think of another question. A silence fell between them, which lengthened until Margaret felt uneasy. Some of her old shyness returned, and she could think of no remark to end the pause. She was about to rise and admire one of the shrubs when Mrs. Dowling said abruptly, “Mayhap the man is your brother. Flos Appleby thinks so, and she sees more of you than me. But if he bain’t…
” She paused and gazed into Margaret’s face, as if to find the truth there. Margaret, who had started inwardly when she first spoke, strove to remain impassive. Mrs. Dowling shrugged. “If he bain’t,” she went on, “he’s worth the candle. That’s all I meant to say.”

  “Worth…” The girl frowned.

  “I’ve seen a deal of people in my time. And mostly men and women together, bringing babies into the world. I know a fine specimen of a man when I see one.”

  Now Margaret did rise. She walked to the corner of the terrace and looked down over the sea, struggling with herself. Part of her wanted to protest hotly and tell Mrs. Dowling exactly what a despicable person Justin Keighley was. But another part kept her silent and finally forced out the words, “I’m sure my brother would be very flattered by your opinion.”

  “Aye. Well, you know best, miss. Flos Appleby says you and the gentleman quarrel whenever he’s awake. She takes that to mean you are brother and sister.” She laughed. “Flos would think that; she and Dan get on like they grew up together. But I know better. Bob and me fought like cats, but we always ended up somewheres else before we was done.”

  Margaret did not understand precisely what the old woman meant, but she caught enough to realize that she was implying some romantic connection between herself and Keighley. “I assure you, you are mistaken,” she replied earnestly. “There is nothing like that involved.” By not mentioning the false “brother” story, she was able to speak with absolute conviction.

  Mrs. Dowling eyed her, looking both puzzled and curious.

  “I should get back to my…my brother now,” added Margaret. “Thank you for asking me in.”

  In another moment she was walking back toward the inn after a hasty farewell. As she went she frowned. Had Mrs. Dowling believed her denials? It would ruin everything if the old woman began telling the villagers that Margaret and Keighley were not brother and sister. She would have to visit her again and make sure she did not. When she decided this, Margaret at once felt better. She hadn’t the least notion that this was partly because she was curious to hear more on the subject of men and their oddness.

  Sir Justin was finishing a bowl of broth from a tray across his knees when Margaret came in. He greeted her much more cordially than she had expected and asked her to sit down. He had indeed been bored through his first morning of full wakefulness, and he was ready to embrace any form of amusement. For her part, Margaret a little regretted her show of temper and was ready to do what she could for her patient.

  “Have you had luncheon?” Keighley asked politely. “I believe Mrs. Appleby mentioned a lamb pie.”

  “I never eat at midday.” This was not strictly true. She never had because she had never been hungry at this time, but recently she sometimes ate the luncheon the landlady pressed on her when she returned from one of her walks. However, she did not think it was Keighley’s place to be urging food on her. She wished to be cordial to him but not to appear subject to his guidance in any way. “Have you finished?” she added, indicating the now empty bowl.

  “Yes.”

  She leaned over him and took the tray, carrying it to a small table in the hall outside, where one of the Appleby girls would find it.

  “Have you plans for the afternoon?” Sir Justin called after her, in a tone more eager and conciliatory than any she had heard him use.

  “No,” she replied, coming back into the room. “Can I do something for you?” As she said this, she felt a strange impulse to giggle. They were talking to each other as carefully as her mother did to Mrs. Kane, her only rival for “great lady” of their neighborhood in Devon and, consequently, her deadliest enemy.

  “It is very slow, lying here. It appears they have no books at this inn. You mentioned cards. I thought we might try a hand, if you are still willing.”

  “Of course. I’ll fetch them.” Turning away, Margaret hid a smile. The insufferable Sir Justin Keighley had certainly altered since the morning. A few hours’ boredom was apparently salutary. She found the cards and ran lightly back upstairs, still smiling. There was a certain pleasure in this change. He deserved a bit of chastening.

  “Do you play piquet?” Keighley asked when she presented the deck.

  Margaret shook her head.

  “Whist? Bezique?”

  “I fear I’ve rarely played cards. The only game I know is Patience.” For an instant his face showed such chagrin that Margaret had to suppress another giggle. “I am willing to learn,” she added with a sweet smile.

  Justin closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with a sigh. If he had had to describe his idea of hell, it probably would have closely resembled his present situation. No doubt the girl would be an execrable cardplayer. Perhaps even boredom was preferable to trying to teach her a game. He considered this alternative but rejected it. “Is that tray still about?” he asked. “We can put it here and use it for a table.”

  Margaret brought the wooden tray back, after removing the dishes, and placed it at his side on the coverlet.

  “All right,” he continued wearily, fanning the deck out on it with his good hand. “We will try piquet, I think. These are the rules.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Margaret hunched, frowning, over the cards in her hand while Sir Justin gazed at her with a look of such rigidly controlled fury that Mrs. Dowling might have been alarmed at her patient’s state. “Are you going to play?” he asked. His tone would have withered any number of habitués of White’s, where Keighley was known as one of the finest cardplayers in London.

  But Margaret was concentrating too closely to notice. She had been making an intense effort in the past hour to remember all the rules he had thrown at her and to play a creditable game. This seemed to become ever more difficult as time passed, and at the moment she was completely at a loss. “Do you think,” she responded without looking up, “that all the cards are here? I have not seen the jack of hearts. Have you had it?”

  Sir Justin clenched his teeth, and his face reddened ominously. “Did you not count the deck before we began?” he said slowly, enunciating each word as if he feared to let it out.

  “I didn’t think to. I should have. I daresay these cards have been lying about for years.”

  “You are the stupidest girl I have ever had the misfortune to encounter!” exploded her companion. “Not only are you utterly unable to grasp the simplest set of rules, but you don’t even have the sense to examine cards before you begin a game. Even an idiot does that much.”

  “Indeed?” Margaret’s chin had come up in outrage. “Why didn’t you do it, then? You are supposed to be the expert. I never claimed to know anything of cards.”

  “I assumed you had taken care of the matter,” he snapped venomously. But her point was so telling that he abandoned this line and added, “In any case, I think we may dispense with cards. You will never be even an average player.”

  “I don’t think that is fair. I have scarcely tried.” Margaret did not understand the rage of a first-rate player after an hour of hesitations and mistakes, and thus she failed to comprehend the depth of his emotion.

  “Do try the next time, then. Perhaps if you strain your faculties to the utmost, you can at least learn the rules.”

  “Well, you are a very poor teacher. You did not explain them at all clearly. My governess used to—”

  Keighley seemed to swell with rage. “I could not be less interested in what your governess used to do. Nor in your opinion of my teaching abilities. Let us simply abandon this effort, for our mutual benefit.”

  Margaret stared at him. “Very well. I do not see why you are so angry. It is only a card game, after all.”

  As he struggled to form a reply to this astonishingly naive statement, Sir Justin had a sudden vision of his circle at White’s. What would Denison or, better, Rowley, do faced with this girl’s attitude? The answer was so ludicrous that mu
ch of his anger dissipated. He almost wished he could set Margaret down among them and watch their faces as she wondered why they became so heated over “only a card game.”

  “Shall we do something else?” the girl was inquiring blithely. “Or are you tired out?”

  Keighley sank back on his pillows with a sigh and a short laugh. “What would you suggest?”

  “It is difficult. There is little to do indoors here. We could just talk, I suppose.” She sounded a bit doubtful.

  He was even more so. “About what?”

  Margaret remembered one of her earlier ideas. “Politics, perhaps. You are very interested in political matters, I know, and I…”

  “And you are as ignorant about them as about piquet,” he finished.

  “I am not. I have listened to political discussions all my life.”

  “I would hardly call your father’s complacent self-congratulations political discussions.”

  “How dare you? He is a highly respected member of Parliament and…”

  “And a pompous fool.”

  Margaret sprang to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. “Why, why you…”

  Keighley gazed appreciatively at her glowing cheeks and flashing blue eyes. This was much more amusing than trying to teach the chit cards. “All right, then,” he challenged. “What do you know about the Corn Laws?”

  Margaret struggled with herself. She wanted to give him a blistering set-down or leave him alone again to amuse himself, but the amused look on his face suggested that he was waiting for her to do either of those things, and to laugh at her for it. It would be far better to show him that she knew as much as he—or more.

  “The Corn Laws,” she began icily, “are to aid agriculture by stopping the import of cheap foreign wheat. The landowners were being ground down and required protection. And the poor should realize that a good price for wheat is necessary so that—”

  “So that they may starve,” he interrupted. But despite his sarcasm, he appeared a bit surprised. “People can’t pay a good price if they have nothing, which is what we are leaving our laborers these days. In any case, the law failed even to do what it promised.”