“His things are still here,” put in Mr. Appleby, coming into the room from the corridor. “He hasn’t left.”
Mrs. Appleby looked unconvinced. “He didn’t have much luggage, nothing he couldn’t do without.”
“His money’s locked in the desk drawer,” answered her husband disgustedly. “And we shouldn’t be bothering folks about him.” He, too, looked at Mr. Mayfield, more openly but with more concern.
The latter had realized whom they were speaking of. “He’s gone,” Mayfield said positively. “Afraid I’d insist he do the right thing, the blackguard. But he’ll have to go back to Devon. We’ll find him there.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Appleby. “But I don’t think he can have gone. His horse is here too. He’d have no way of traveling without it.”
“Probably he is out walking,” said Margaret. “He has been doing a great deal of that since he was better.”
“And made up his own bed?” asked Mrs. Appleby skeptically.
“Perhaps he didn’t sleep. We had a—disagreement last night.”
“Yes, miss.” Both Applebys looked as though they had heard most of the proceedings.
“I daresay he will return at any moment, wanting his breakfast.” Margaret’s tone sounded false even to herself.
“Well, I just thought you should know,” replied Mrs. Appleby, turning to go. “It’s not a question of money, of course. I expect you’ll take care of that.” With another secret look at Mr. Mayfield, she left them, taking her husband with her.
“He’s gone, Margaret,” said Mayfield when they were alone again. “He couldn’t face the consequences of his dishonorable actions.” He sounded somehow satisfied with this idea.
“Will you stop, Papa? Do you care nothing for how I feel?”
He gazed at her in surprise.
Margaret struggled to control her emotions. What if he had left her? She realized that she had not entirely given up hope. “I am sure Sir Justin is only out walking.”
“Margaret, it is raining. And has been half the night. He would have to be mad to be out in this downpour, and those people thought you so for suggesting it, though they were too polite to say so.”
“I…I forgot the rain.” Looking toward the window, Margaret saw that it was still coming down heavily. Something in her gave way, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. She could not stop them.
“Here, Margaret,” exclaimed her father. “Here, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be so sharp with you. I was angry.” He bustled over and pressed his handkerchief on her.
She took it and dabbed at her eyes, but the tears would not be dried. The man she loved had fled from her; she had never felt so alone in her life.
Mayfield hovered anxiously. “What would you like to do, Margaret?” he asked. “Won’t you come home with me and…and think things over?”
She couldn’t speak, but his tone was so apologetic and worried that she reached out and squeezed his hand. He held hers eagerly.
A door slammed nearby, and Margaret looked up. But it was Jemmy Appleby’s voice that sounded in the corridor, calling for his father, and her head sank down again.
Silence fell in the parlor, broken only by Margaret’s stifled sobs. Her father looked by turns angry and uneasy. Then, with a second tap on the door, Mr. Appleby returned, leading Jem by the hand.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, averting his eyes from Margaret’s tear-stained face. “But Jem here has some news.”
“The Gull’s gone,” the boy burst out. “I went down this morning to see to her mooring, and she was gone. And old Ned at the docks says he seen a gentleman take her out last night.”
Margaret sniffed convulsively.
“What is he talking about?” asked her father.
“The Gull is his boat,” explained Mr. Appleby. “He and the gentleman and the young lady have been out in her together.”
“He was out in the storm?” gulped Margaret.
“Hard to say, miss—”
“He put out before it started,” interrupted Jem. “And he might have gotten to shore several places before it blew up. But where was he going, miss? And why would he take the Gull out in the dark? She’s a good boat, but she’s not fitted for night sailing. Mr. Camden knew that. He knew a deal about boats.”
“Enough to get away from here in one, I daresay,” replied Mr. Mayfield. “So much for your horses, innkeeper. He has made his escape by water.”
Jem appeared to take this suggestion seriously, without considering its implications. “He could have,” he agreed. “With sharp sailing, he might have even made Falmouth before the worst of the storm. But you know, miss, with his shoulder the way it was, I wonder if he could handle her properly? The Gull takes some quick work when the wind’s up.”
“I can see no other possible reason for him to have gone out in a boat,” answered Mr. Mayfield coldly. “It was hardly the hour for a pleasure cruise.”
Mr. Appleby had begun to look doubtful. “It do seem odd,” he agreed.
“He would not have been able to sail,” cried Margaret. “His shoulder was only just healed, and Mrs. Dowling said he was on no account to strain it. He has had an accident! We must search for him.” She looked wildly about, as if half expecting to find Keighley lying broken somewhere nearby.
Mr. Appleby shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Mayfield looked thunderous. Only Jemmy appeared to consider her idea possible. “I doubt it, miss,” he answered. “What I think is, he probably found the storm too much for him and put in somewhere nearby. Mr. Camden is sharp, and he would have seen that the Gull wouldn’t hold in that wind, with him not at his best, that is.” Jem nodded, with the air of one giving credit where it is due. “If he hadn’t been wounded, I daresay Mr. Camden could have sailed her ’cross the Channel and back again.”
Margaret had hung on his words. “What should we do, then?”
Jem shrugged. “The wind’s down. I expect he’ll bring her back later today.” He hunched one shoulder in his father’s direction. “I never wanted all this fuss about it.”
Mr. Appleby frowned at him, and Mayfield glared at Margaret, but she was too distracted to notice. “We simply wait, then?” she murmured.
“I’ll keep watch for him, miss,” responded Jemmy, and, pulling free of his father’s hand, he went out.
“Margaret,” said Mr. Mayfield ponderously.
“I must go out,” she said, turning to the door.
“You will do no such thing!”
“Papa, he is out on the water with an injured shoulder, and…”
“And what is that to you? This is the man who has destroyed your good character and flatly refused to marry you. The man whom you insisted that you did not wish to marry. Why these hysterics?”
“I…I can’t explain it, Papa. I must—”
“You must do as I say. I command you to pack your things and be ready to go home with me in an hour. I will call for the carriage.”
“I can’t, Papa.”
“Are you defying me to my face, Margaret?”
She stared at him. She had never refused any of her parents’ demands. Even in running away she had not confronted them. But now it seemed almost easy to reply, “Yes, Papa. I am sorry. I will be back soon.”
“Margaret.” But she had left the room.
She ran upstairs for her hooded cloak and hurried down again before her father could pursue her with more arguments. Throwing the garment around her, she rushed out into the rain and flung herself down the cobblestones to the seawall. The storm was definitely lessening. Though the rain continued, the wind had calmed to a breeze, and far to the east, lighter sky showed. Margaret bent her head against the raindrops and leaned against the wall, peering out over the water. There was no boat to be seen.
She walked toward the docks, then back aro
und the village to the steps down to the beach. She thought of visiting her pool but rejected the idea, turning to pace back the way she had come. Now that she was alone, her thoughts boiled up and she wondered uneasily whether Sir Justin had indeed used the Gull to escape his awkward situation. Why else, indeed, would he go out at such a time?
Shaking her head, she pushed the idea away and looked out to sea again. But though she walked along the seawall most of that day, there was no sign of Keighley or the Gull, not even when the clouds broke up at three and the sun illumined the now peaceful waves.
Seventeen
It was at this point that Margaret’s father insisted she return to the Red Lion. He had come down several times during the day to upbraid her, but now he gave up arguing and simply hauled her along by one arm. Margaret, damp from the rain, cold, and dispirited, did not resist too strongly. Her long, uncomfortable vigil had given her ample time to reconsider, and her conclusions had not been pleasant. Reviewing the events of the past few days, she began to find it easier and easier to believe that Sir Justin had fled to escape her and her father’s insistence on marriage. Had he not plainly stated, before them both, that he did not mean to marry her? She had been dazzled by their closeness last night, but now that seemed far away.
And if, as he had said, he was not thinking of marriage, what was she to do? She loved him; that had not changed. But she was still enough her parents’ daughter to want the customary setting for that love. Perhaps he, from such a different family, felt differently. Or, and this seemed both more likely and more dreadful to Margaret, perhaps he didn’t care for her at all. Perhaps he often kissed girls who, she admitted it, encouraged him to do so, without necessarily feeling anything. His dramatic departure seemed to suggest this was the correct interpretation.
And because she was coming to fear this, she let her father guide her up the hill to the inn and did not protest as he said, “We are leaving at once. I have directed the landlady to pack your things, and I have paid your shot. Keighley’s too, if it comes to that, the blackguard. I imagine he thinks it very amusing that I have been left with his bill. I have the chaise—I have been traveling in it—and James from our stables. He is completely trustworthy and will mention none of this. We can be home tonight, and by tomorrow morning, you will have begun to forget this whole terrible incident, Margaret.”
The girl wondered confusedly what she should do.
“How it galls me,” her father continued in the same ferocious tone, “that we cannot spread the tale of his infamy throughout society. But, of course, that is impossible. I shall drop a word in the ear of one or two of my friends—without giving details, naturally—but for the rest, we must remain silent. It is unfair.”
“Papa—”
“Now, you needn’t say anything, Margaret. I know you are overwrought after all that has befallen you. You can stop worrying now. I will take care of everything.”
“But, Papa, you could be wrong. Sir Justin may have had an accident, and if he has, we should—”
“I care nothing for that man. He must take the consequences of his actions. If something has happened to him, well, perhaps it is divine justice, stepping in where we cannot.”
This roused Margaret. “You do not mean that. Someone must search for him.” They had reached the inn by now, and she saw Mr. Appleby and Jem standing before the doorway looking out to sea. Hurrying forward, she said, “Is there to be a search for the Gull? I am afraid there may have been an accident.”
“Oh, yes, miss,” responded Appleby. “Two boats are going out directly, now that the sea’s down.” He looked skeptical but spoke kindly.
“I’m going,” added Jem firmly. “Probably meet him coming back.”
Mr. Mayfield made a rude noise.
“What can I do?” asked Margaret.
Both Applebys looked surprised. “Why, nothing, miss,” answered the innkeeper after a moment.
“Surely I could be of some help? I could…” Margaret could, in fact, think of nothing.
“We’ll do everything needful,” said Appleby. “Jem here won’t spare any pains looking for his boat.”
His son assented with heartfelt enthusiasm.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” replied Margaret sadly. They were right; there was nothing she could do. And even if there had been, how would Sir Justin respond if she appeared in the search party?
“Is my chaise harnessed up?” interrupted Mayfield. “We will be going soon.”
“Yes, sir. She’s in the stable, all ready.”
“Good. Come, Margaret.” He took her arm again.
“We’re sorry to see you go, miss,” said Mr. Appleby. He eyed her a little anxiously, as if unsure whether to offer help.
“Thank you. You have been very kind to me.”
Appleby shrugged, and her father pulled her inside the inn and down the corridor. “Go up and see that they have packed all your things,” he said. “And take off that damp cloak. You won’t need it. We leave in a quarter hour, Margaret.”
At his urging, she walked slowly up the stairs. Her bedchamber, where she had spent so many hours that it now seemed almost like home, was bare and unwelcoming. All her things were folded and lying in a portmanteau she recognized as one of her parents’. Margaret slipped out of her cloak and sat down on the bed. What should she do? If there was any chance that she could help in the search for the Gull—but there was not. She could only stand by and wait. She would have done that if she thought Sir Justin would welcome her efforts. But this, too, was doubtful. Yet how could she simply leave with her father, go home again as if nothing had occurred?
With a worried sigh, Margaret stood and went to the window. The sea now sparkled blue under a mostly clear sky. No boat punctuated its bright expanse. She was utterly alone.
Abruptly she thought of Mrs. Dowling. She would know what should be done. And she must be paid for her nursing in any case. Snatching up her reticule, Margaret ran back down the stairs and out the door, encountering no one. In five minutes she was knocking on the cottage door and being admitted with a cheerful greeting.
“Mrs. Dowling,” she almost gasped.
“Here, now. What’s this?”
“Have you heard what has happened?”
“I’ve heard there’s another gentleman at the Red Lion, an older gentleman.” She cocked an inquiring eye at Margaret. “If the truth be told, I meant to come up there today, but I had to go out to the Woosters’ for a birthing.”
“It’s my father.”
“Ah, is it, now?”
“Yes. He’s very angry with me.”
Mrs. Dowling merely nodded and settled into a listening pose.
“I—I did as you suggested and spoke to—to the other gentleman. But—” She could not continue.
Mrs. Dowling eyed her shrewdly. “You don’t mean he denied you?”
“Not exactly.” Trembling, Margaret poured out all that had occurred. “So you see,” she finished, “he said that he did not want to marry me. And now he is gone. I—I suppose I should just go home with Father, but—”
“But you don’t want to.”
“No. That is—”
“Of course not.” Mrs. Dowling sighed. “Gentlemen are foolish. They always make such a muck of things and then expect their ladies to put it right again without so much as a whimper.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you’ll pardon me, miss, I must say your father went about it exactly wrong.”
“About what?”
“And the other gentleman wasn’t much better. Cut off his nose to spite his face, he did. Going off in a boat in the dark—just like a little boy sulking. They don’t change, miss, from the time they’re three and rolling in the dirt cursing one another.”
Margaret frowned at her.
“I’ll tell you what,” the old woman was con
tinuing when they heard shouting in the street outside.
“Margaret,” bellowed a voice.
“It’s Father!”
“Margaret.” A pounding started on the door, and Mrs. Dowling went to open it. Mr. Mayfield stamped in angrily. “Here you are. They said you might have come here. What in heaven’s name are you doing, Margaret? The chaise is ready. We are going now.”
“I…I wanted to see Mrs. Dowling. She hasn’t been paid for her nursing,” added Margaret hurriedly.
“Paid for… Dash it, am I supposed to lay out good money for that as well? Outrageous. But anything to get away from this cursed place. How much are you owed, woman?”
Margaret protested his mode of address with a gesture, but Mrs. Dowling merely gazed at him. “Not so much as that fancy Falmouth doctor,” she replied.
“Rightly so, no doubt. How much?” Mayfield had taken out his purse and was brandishing it impatiently.
“I will pay her, Papa.”
“Nonsense.”
“She has been very kind to me, and I wanted—”
“Well, thank her and run along, Margaret. We must get on the road at once if we are to benefit at all from the evening light. Go on.”
Margaret looked helplessly at Mrs. Dowling, who indicated the door with a small nod. Reluctantly the girl moved toward it. She felt a paralyzing mixture of anger, despair, and fatigue.
“Go on,” repeated her father. “Get in the chaise. It is in front of the inn. I shall be there directly.”
“Papa.”
“Go, Margaret.”
With a broken sigh, she did so, climbing slowly back toward the inn. She could do no more; everything was spoiled.
In the cottage Mayfield was surveying Mrs. Dowling. “Are you in his pay?” he asked her coldly. “Did you conspire in my daughter’s imprisonment?”
The old woman raised her eyebrows.
He made an impatient gesture. “It hardly matters now. How much do you want?” He opened his purse.
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