A Radical Arrangement

by Ashford, Jane

  “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  “You weren’t to know. There’s some as chatter everything they see. But not I.” She lowered her gaze, which had been fixed sternly on a pot of pink geraniums. “If there was something you wanted to ask me, miss, it wouldn’t go no further.”

  But Margaret was by now too embarrassed to ask anything. “No, there’s nothing. But…thank you. I should go now.”

  Mrs. Dowling rose to stand beside her, her white head reaching only just above the girl’s shoulder. “You know best. I’m usually about the cottage in the afternoons. Mornings, I see to my patients.”

  She led Margaret to the front door and saw her out.

  “Th-thank you,” stammered Margaret again, though she was unsure why.

  The old woman grinned, bobbed her head, and shut the door.

  Walking back up to the Red Lion, Margaret wondered at herself. What had she expected to accomplish by that ill-conceived visit? And what was wrong with her? She had been rather complacently pleased with the changes in herself recently—with her newfound confidence and her altered looks. But with Mrs. Dowling today, she had felt sillier than she ever had at home. How could she imagine that an old village midwife could advise her about problems she could not even define? Assuming that the woman had useful knowledge, a thing Margaret was not at all sure of at this moment, she could not be expected to read thoughts from the air as well. It was becoming imperative that Margaret understand and order her feelings, and she did not know where to begin.

  Eleven

  Three weeks to the day after Sir Justin Keighley had been carried to the Red Lion, a curious expedition left it early one August morning. It consisted first of Jemmy Appleby, liberally laden with baskets, parcels, and rugs, then of Margaret, also carrying several bundles, and finally of Sir Justin, who held nothing but a walking stick. The day was fine, and they were at last gratifying Jem’s urgent wish to take them out in the Gull.

  The decision to make the excursion had not been easy. Keighley, who had scrupulously followed Mrs. Dowling’s orders and hardly ventured from his room for days, had at last insisted that he was well enough to go out again, and that he would go quite mad if he were shut up any longer. Margaret, while expressing sympathy with his desire, had argued against sailing with all her eloquence. She could not think it wise for Keighley to so cut himself off from help. However, when she found that he meant to go without her, she sighed and gave in. Mrs. Dowling had after all said that Sir Justin was greatly improved.

  And so a series of quiet days came to an end with this outing. Margaret had been spending her time reading—she had finished the book Keighley had given her—and thinking. Neither had been wholly satisfactory. The book left her mind whirling with new ideas, some of which she approved and others she resisted, and her efforts to understand her own mental condition generally ended in confusion as well. After a time she had abandoned the latter attempt. Things were peaceful; there seemed no need to agonize.

  Jem had brought his boat into the inlet again, as it was closer than the docks on the other side of the village. He led them there, chattering eagerly the whole time, and deposited his various burdens on the shore. “You can put the other things there as well, miss,” he said. “I’ll begin stowing them in a minute.”

  Gratefully Margaret put down her bundles. The boy started to check over his craft, with Keighley watching smilingly, and she strolled out to the head of the inlet to look at the bay. The water was calm under a broad blue sky. A soft breeze blew in her face. This was good, she knew, having received some cursory instructions from Keighley the previous evening. Without any wind the boat would not move, but with too much such a small craft could be dangerous.

  “Come on, miss,” called Jemmy, and she returned to find that all the packages had somehow been fitted into the Gull’s compartments. “You can get aboard now,” added the boy. Keighley was bent over the mooring rope, farther up the beach.

  Gathering up the skirts of her light blue cambric gown, Margaret climbed into the boat as she had been instructed on the previous occasion.

  Jemmy put a steadying hand under her elbow and, when she was sitting on the decking over the tiny cabin, said, “Move on back, miss, and sit on top of one of those lockers.”

  Margaret looked around, puzzled.

  “The compartments on the side, miss.”

  “Oh.” Carefully she edged her way along the deck, lowered her feet into the boat, and swiveled around to sit on one of the cupboards. The Gull rocked abruptly as she did so, and Margaret clutched the side behind her.

  “That’s it,” said Jemmy encouragingly. “We’re ready for you, sir.”

  Keighley joined him, handing over the mooring line. “Shall I help you shove her off?”

  “I’ll do it, sir.”

  “I doubt you can with both of us aboard. Let us push her out a bit first.”

  Jemmy shrugged his agreement, and the two of them pushed the boat farther out into the water. Margaret felt the back float free, a curious sensation. Keighley leaped lightly in on the side opposite her and looked ruefully down at his wet riding boots. “My valet will have something to say about that. Salt water. I wish I had some other footgear.”

  “I thought you were going to borrow Jem’s brother’s boots.”

  “Unfortunately his feet turned out to be a good deal smaller than mine.”

  Jemmy was straining at the boat, shoving it away from the shore until he stood in water up to his knees. “I’m going to pull her out with the line, sir,” he said then. “Will you take the tiller?”

  Nodding, Keighley moved to the rear of the craft and put his hand on a rod there.

  “Does that steer the boat?” asked Margaret.

  “Yes. It is attached to the rudder.”

  Jem heaved again, and the Gull slid toward the mouth of the inlet. Margaret was pleasantly surprised by the smooth glide; it was quite unlike the ride of any other vehicle she knew. When they had passed out into the bay and the water started to deepen, Jem hauled himself in and wrung out the bottoms of his trousers. “Sorry, miss,” he muttered when a rivulet of water threatened to wet her skirts.

  “That’s all right,” replied Margaret stoutly. “I expect I shall get wet before the day is out.”

  Keighley grinned at her, and Jem bobbed his head before clambering up to free the sail. It was small and soon raised, a triangle of white above their heads. “All right, sir,” said the boy when it was secure. “We head nor’east.” He pointed, and Sir Justin eased the tiller over.

  Margaret watched, enthralled, as the wind belled out the sail and their speed increased. But then the Gull began to lean sideways, tilting the side where she sat toward the waves, and she could not restrain a muffled cry. The water seemed so close.

  “It’s all right,” Keighley assured her. “The wind in the sail makes it lean. But you’ll probably want to sit on the other side now.”

  Gingerly Margaret shifted seats. It did indeed feel much safer on the opposite side.

  “Will you take the helm, Captain?” said Sir Justin to Jemmy, and with a wide smile the boy moved to do so. Keighley slid up to the front decking. “She runs well,” he added, gazing about.

  Jem beamed with pride.

  “Where are we going?” Margaret asked him.

  “There’s a little island in the bay. No one lives there—too small and there’s no water. But it’s a good spot for picnics, Ma says, and it’s a fine sail.”

  Nodding, she turned back to the view. The wind was stronger out here on the water, and the little boat seemed to be flying along. The sun sparkled on the waves and danced over the trail of foam they left behind. A real gull flew over, crying sadly. Margaret felt exhilarated. “This is wonderful,” she said.

  Sir Justin turned to smile at her. “It is not always quite so pleasant, is it, Jem?”

  “No
ssir.” The boy grinned.

  “Before you can claim to like it, you must go out in rain and high seas, and in a wind so stiff that the boat nearly comes out of water.”

  “Why?”

  “The force of the air on the sail pushes—”

  “No, no, I mean why must I do those things? They sound dreadful.”

  He laughed. “To be a true sailor, you must be able to face the sea in all its moods.”

  “A fair-weather sailor don’t know anything,” agreed Jemmy.

  “Perhaps not,” responded Margaret, “but I daresay he is much happier.”

  Keighley laughed again. “A friend of mine who has a beautiful yacht insists that anyone who wishes to know what owning a boat is like need only stand outside in a cold rain and tear up pound notes. The effect is the same.”

  Margaret gazed at him with half-laughing incredulity.

  “You are out in all weathers,” he explained, “and you spend a great deal of money. What do you say, Jem?”

  “I wish I had a few pound notes to spend on the Gull,” replied the practical boy.

  Margaret laughed. “Indeed. I think your friend is very silly. If that is the way he feels about it, he should do something else with his time.”

  Shaking his head, Sir Justin turned back to the sea.

  “There’s the island,” said Jemmy, pointing.

  Following his finger, Margaret could just see a smudge of land between them and the farther shore of the bay. “That was very fast.”

  “We aren’t there yet,” answered Keighley.

  “But we are”—she looked back—“nearly halfway already.”

  “In distance, perhaps, but our journey will take quite a time yet.”

  Margaret soon found out what he meant. Instead of sailing directly to the island, they went first to the left of it and then to the right. This maneuver, she was told, was called tacking, the sailor’s mode of travel. A sailing vessel must follow the wind, and not its master’s inclination.

  Thus, a trip she had thought would take no more than half an hour stretched to two hours, and by the time they nosed in to land, she had had enough of the sea for a while. She was also very hungry.

  “There’s a good place up above,” said Jemmy when all their bundles had been unloaded and piled on the grass.

  Margaret followed his gaze with a grimace. The island was one large hillock thrusting out of the water, and the climb to the top appeared steep. She was not overeager to attempt it hung with luggage, particularly before lunch. “It may be too taxing for you,” she said to Keighley.

  “Nonsense, I am not in the least fatigued. And the view should be splendid. Let us go up by all means.”

  With a sigh, she bent to pick up some rugs and a basket. Jem had already begun to festoon himself.

  “I can take something,” added Sir Justin with a smile.

  “No, you go ahead. Mrs. Dowling said you weren’t to carry things or go too fast.”

  With an amused shrug, he turned away and started up the hill. Jem followed, and Margaret brought up the rear, with the first of many silent curses at the flounced hem of her gown, which continually tried to trip her up.

  Fortunately the ascent was not as arduous as it had appeared from water level. There was a good path winding back and forth across the hill, and the breeze kept the sun from feeling too hot. In ten minutes they had gained the summit, where a clump of four beech trees offered grassy shade. Margaret put down her bundles and straightened to look around, only to gasp with astonished pleasure. The panorama was breathtaking. The shore of the bay curved distantly around them on three sides, making a line of green between the blue water and the cloudless sky. Behind her the view was open to the sea, and here the blue stretched infinitely out and up. They could see the village, color-splashed white against the gray cliff, near the bay’s mouth. Margaret let her breath out in a sigh. “I have never seen anything so lovely.”

  “It is,” agreed Keighley. “Thank you for bringing us here, Jem.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Thought you’d like it,” replied Jem complacently. “I’ll set out the lunch, shall I?”

  “Do,” agreed Sir Justin, meeting Margaret’s eyes with a laugh in his own.

  They ate on a rug under the trees. Mrs. Appleby had provided a cold roast chicken with pickles, fresh-baked bread with butter wrapped in oilcloth, apples, and a liberal supply of her succulent oatmeal cakes. A jug of home-brewed beer completed the menu, and it looked so good that Margaret was persuaded to try a small glass too.

  The food tasted wonderful, and even had she not been hungry, Margaret would have been spurred to eat by Jemmy’s prodigious gusto. He devoured everything the others left and still eyed the hamper with regret when it was pronounced empty at last.

  “I’ll go down and check the Gull, then,” he said after making sure no crumb had eluded him. And in the next moment he was bounding down the hill in great leaps.

  “How can he?” wondered Margaret. “After what he has eaten.”

  “One of the talents of boys,” replied Sir Justin. He had settled back against the trunk of one of the beeches and was reclining there contentedly, the last of the beer beside him.

  “Is it?” She looked at the littered cloth. “I suppose I should tidy up.”

  “Not yet, surely. Look, there is a hawk.”

  Following his pointing finger, she saw the bird far way, floating on the wind, its wings outstretched and motionless. Suddenly it folded them and hurtled earthward, to disappear behind some trees onshore. “Oh,” exclaimed Margaret softly.

  “He has seen something.” Keighley sipped his beer. “So, you have finished the book I gave you?”

  “Yes, last night. It took me quite a time, I know.”

  “What did you think?”

  Margaret frowned. “Well, some of the ideas seemed good, but others…”

  “Yes?”

  “They were very extreme.”

  He smiled a little. “Too radical?”

  “I suppose they were. I could not help but think…”

  “What?”

  “Well, that the author exaggerated. I know that many people are poor, and that they lack the luxuries I have taken for granted, but I cannot believe that their situation is as bad as that book makes out.” She shivered. “Some of the descriptions were dreadful.”

  “But very real, I assure you.”

  Margaret looked distressed. “In a few isolated cases, perhaps? But surely such terrible hardship is not widespread. Indeed, it cannot be—not here.”

  “Not here,” echoed Keighley mockingly. “How do you know? Have you ever looked?”

  “No, but others, those in charge of the government, must have done so. They would not allow this…”

  “You think not?”

  “Yes.” She glared at him; it seemed to her he was criticizing her father, who was in fact in government, by his skeptical tone.

  Keighley was the victim of mixed feelings. He had made this expedition somewhat against his better judgment. His resolve to avoid Margaret or keep a distance between them was unchanged, but the temptation to get out of the inn in such a pleasant manner had been irresistible, and though he had tried to discourage her from coming, he could hardly forbid it in the face of the Applebys’ urging. And once they were on the water, his spirits had been too high to quell. But now he was regretting the trip again. This conversation was reemphasizing the insidious alteration in their relationship. Whereas before he would have felt contempt and impatience at the opinions she was expressing, now he felt interest and a strong desire to convince her of the truth of his own view. His best course would be to brush off the subject and suggest they pack up for the return journey.

  Having firmly decided this, he said, “I could show you that you are mistaken.”

  Margaret raised
her eyebrows.

  “In this very neighborhood, I daresay,” he added.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Poverty is far more widespread than you know, and I can prove it.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Are you afraid of the truth?” he interrupted, wondering as the words emerged if he was speaking to her or to himself.

  “No!”

  “Well then?”

  “You may show me what you please. Perhaps you will find that you are the one who is mistaken.”

  “We shall see.” Having somehow committed himself to what he continued to see as a foolish course, Sir Justin rose. “We should be going back, I suppose.”

  Margaret looked at the view regretfully. “All right. I will put the things away if you will call Jemmy.”

  He started to offer to help, then thought better of it. “Very well.” He walked to the edge of the hill and signaled to the boy. As Jemmy jumped up to obey his summons Keighley turned back and, to his own astonishment, heard himself say, “Whatever happened to young Manningham?”

  Margaret froze, her hand poised over the basket with a soiled napkin. “Happened?”

  Cursing himself for a fool, Justin struggled to find words to redeem this awkward situation. But all that came out was, “Yes.”

  “H-he left, I imagine.”

  “Left your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was…unhappy?”

  Margaret laughed harshly and shakily. “Oh, no. I would say frightened, rather. Afraid that he might somehow be forced to marry a disgraced girl and ruin his political career.”

  “Puppy!” As the epithet escaped him, Sir Justin put a hand to his forehead. Had he gone mad? His wound must be affecting his mind for him to blurt out such idiocies. He would never have done so in the past. And yet he was amazed to find in himself a desire to take Manningham by the scruff of the neck and thrash him.