Margaret’s reunion with her mother was strained. Mrs. Mayfield heard the chaise pull up before the house late in the evening, and she was out on the front steps by the time they had climbed out. She bore down on Margaret like a ship in full sail, folded her in her arms for a brief instant, then held her away and said, “Where have you been?” in a tone that belied her first affectionate gesture.
Margaret merely slipped out of her grasp and went inside. Mrs. Mayfield looked startled and opened her mouth to speak, but her husband waved her into the library, leaving their daughter to do as she pleased.
She went upstairs. Her old bedroom seemed strange and alien when she walked in, like a place she had inhabited long ago and almost forgotten. She touched the bedpost and the dressing table, opened the wardrobe and gazed at the row of dresses there—she would be able to wear something other than the three gowns she had had in Cornwall. It all seemed unreal. It is as if, Margaret thought, I were only half here. I see and feel things as if through gauze. Her mind was still full of the village, the ocean, and, perpetually, Justin Keighley. Had he returned to the inn? she wondered. What would he tell the Applebys?
She heard footsteps on the stairs. Her mother was coming up. Unhesitatingly Margaret did something she had never done before in her life. She stepped forward and turned the key in her bedroom door, locking it securely. She had had enough for today.
The doorknob rattled, then there was a sharp knock on the panels. Margaret stood still and silent. She expected her mother to call out, but she did not. Instead, after rattling the knob once more, she walked away. When her footsteps died out, Margaret breathed a sigh and started to undress. She didn’t think she would sleep, but there was nothing else she could do just now.
In the morning she delayed going downstairs as long as possible. She had indeed slept poorly, dreaming of storms and waking to lie rigid in her bed, and she did not look forward to this day. But at last she could put it off no longer. She walked down to the breakfast room through empty corridors and found her mother there, her place cleared, writing a letter.
Margaret stopped briefly in the doorway, then slipped into her place and poured out a cup of tea. Her mother continued to write without looking up.
The girl took a muffin from under a silver cover and began to butter it. Her mother paid no attention.
Margaret glanced sidelong at her as she raised the muffin to her lips. Mrs. Mayfield’s jaw was set, but this was by no means unusual. Could it be that she was to escape a lecture? She bit into the muffin, and her mother said, “So?” in a penetrating tone.
Margaret choked a little, chewed and swallowed.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing, Mama,” replied the girl wearily.
“Nothing. Well, I suppose there is very little you can say, but I would have expected some attempt at excusing your reprehensible behavior.”
Margaret kept her eyes on her plate and sipped her tea.
“Well?”
“I am not going to argue with you, Mama. I tried with Father, and it does no good.”
Mrs. Mayfield looked both surprised and frustrated. “What do you mean, it does no good?”
“You will not see my side.”
“I should think not. Could you really expect me to condone your refusing to marry a man who has utterly compromised you? When your father told me what he found in Cornwall, I could scarcely believe my ears. Actually in that libertine’s arms, and then both of you saying you would not marry. Could you imagine I would accept such a thing?”
“No, Mama.” Margaret’s voice, in contrast to her mother’s, remained quiet and unemotional. She felt as if she had used up all her store of feelings; there were none left to throw into argument.
Mrs. Mayfield stared at her. “What has happened to you, Margaret?” She surveyed her more closely. “Your looks are improved, I must admit—greatly improved. But I cannot say the same for your character. Indeed, I can hardly believe you are my daughter.”
The girl shrugged slightly and took another bite of muffin.
Her mother glared at her, started to speak, then paused and reconsidered. After a while she continued in a different tone. “What do you intend to do, then?”
Margaret looked up, meeting her eyes.
“You refuse to talk to me,” said Mrs. Mayfield. “What will you do?”
“I—I had thought of working.”
“What?”
“I—I should like to help people, Mama. I thought of going to London and finding work on one of the relief committees. The poor are—”
“You? Work in the slums of London? Have you gone mad, Margaret?”
Her daughter turned her head away.
“I have never heard such idiocy in my life. It is out of the question. You have no idea what you would find.”
“I have some idea.”
“Nonsense. I believe you are a bit mad. The terrible experiences of the last weeks have turned your brain.” Mrs. Mayfield seemed pleased with this notion. She appeared to turn it over in her mind.
Margaret was finally getting angry. “What do you suggest I do, then?” she asked. “According to you, I am ruined. Do you wish me simply to pine away out of remorse?”
“On the contrary,” her mother responded eagerly. “I think if we put a bold face on this thing, we can pass it off without much more gossip. There was talk, of course, when you disappeared. Particularly since Sir Justin left at the same time. But we put it about that you had gone to stay with your aunt, and now we can simply say that you are returned from your visit. After the first whispers the matter will die down and be forgotten, I daresay.”
Margaret shrugged.
“There is a luncheon at the Camdens on…”
At the mention of this name, Margaret stiffened. “I couldn’t possibly be less interested in what our neighbors say of me,” she snapped.
Mrs. Mayfield drew herself up. “You cannot mean that.”
“I assure you I do.”
Her mother stared at her incredulously. Her angry expression wavered. “And do you care nothing for me? Because I am very conscious of our position both here and in town. And what of your father’s career? Are you trying to ruin him as well as yourself?”
Margaret met her intent blue gaze. Abruptly she realized that the flicker visible in the back of her mother’s eyes was a kind of terror, and her opposition melted. She really did not care what people like the Camdens said, and since she did not, it was all one to her whether she saw them or not. “You want me to go to this luncheon?” she asked.
Mrs. Mayfield leaned forward. “Yes. And we will tell them—”
“That I have been visiting my aunt. You may tell them what you like, Mama. I shall not contradict you. When is this party?”
“Next Monday.”
Margaret could hardly bear the intense eagerness in her mother’s gaze. “Very well. I shall do whatever you like about it.”
Her mother did not actually thank her, but the heartfelt sigh she gave as she leaned back in her chair demonstrated her gratitude and the depth of the concern she had been feeling.
“But here at home I will not be badgered,” added Margaret, extracting some exchange for her concession.
Mrs. Mayfield eyed her, some of her old truculence returning to her face. “I do not see—”
“Because if you and Papa are continually lecturing me, I shall simply run away again.” Margaret rose and stared down at her.
Her mother frowned and pressed her lips tightly together, far from defeated. But her silence was enough for Margaret, and she turned and left the room.
Her satisfaction at this victory was short-lived, however. Before she had regained her bedchamber, she was again thinking of Justin Keighley and of their ill-fated moments together. Where was he? Why had he run away without a word to her? And why had she let herself be dragged home before finding out what had become of him?
This last question almost sent her to the stables for her horse. But then she recalled the Applebys’ discouragements and, more important, Keighley’s rejection. She had been right to leave. The Applebys or Mrs. Dowling would write her if there was any news.
The next two days were agonizing. Margaret could not settle to any pursuit. She tried to read, walk, sew, but each time she found herself gazing blankly into space after the first few minutes, lost to the present. Her parents treated her warily, as one might a strange wild animal, and generally left her alone. When they met at meals, Margaret scarcely spoke, and the Mayfields exchanged worried glances. They were particularly concerned when, on the third day, she ordered her horse. But this time Margaret noticed their looks and said, “You needn’t worry. I am only going for a ride in the neighborhood.”
She did not take a groom, in defiance of her mother’s rule, and once she was out galloping across the fields, she felt somewhat better. She had not ridden like this in the past. Then she had trotted sedately along the lanes, her servant just behind. But now she felt she wanted to hurl herself over hedges, splash through streams, throwing up water on every side, and race the mail coach down the high road. Somehow, she thought, a great spring of energy had been released in her, and it would never be stopped again.
She had turned back toward home when suddenly she got an idea. She was not too far from Keighley’s house; she could easily swing past it on her way.
Even if Keighley did not mean to communicate with her, he must send word to his servants. She might be able to find out something there. He might even have returned home.
Her heart began to pound as she pulled her horse’s head around and headed toward his house. If he were there, what would he say to her? She quickly reached the wall surrounding his park and rode to the front gate. The grounds looked deserted. For a moment she wavered. It was unusual, unheard of, really, for an unchaperoned young lady to visit a single gentleman. The servants would be shocked. But then she grimaced and started up the drive. Her purpose overrode convention.
At the house she slid off her horse and strode up to knock before she could lose her nerve. The door was opened by a footman. “Hello,” said Margaret. “I wish to inquire whether Sir Justin has yet returned from his…his journey?”
The footman, who had seemed surprised to find her alone on the doorstep, shook his head. “No, miss. He’s still away.”
“Did he say when he would be back?” asked Margaret valiantly.
“Not so far as I know, miss.”
“I—I see.” She wondered if she dared go further, then decided she had nothing more to lose. “Could you inquire? I wished to speak with him about a rather important business matter.”
“Yes, miss. If you’ll step in?” The man seemed only too glad to refer this problem to a superior.
“I must stay with my horse.”
He looked uneasy but disappeared into the rear of the hall. In a few moments he returned, accompanied by a stately butler. “May I be of some assistance?” inquired the latter.
Margaret repeated her request.
“I’m sorry, miss, but Sir Justin has given no indication when he plans to return,” answered the butler. “Perhaps you should write. I’ll see that he gets the letter as soon as he arrives.”
“Or perhaps I could send it wherever he is staying,” responded Margaret, amazed at her own effrontery.
The butler looked slightly uncomfortable. “Unfortunately I am not at liberty to give out his address.”
It was clear to the girl that he did not know it. “Oh? Well then, I suppose I must do as you suggest. Thank you.”
“Certainly, miss.”
She remounted at the mounting block and trotted back down the drive, frowning meditatively. At least she had made sure there was no news from Keighley. She was glad to know that, but it left her as perplexed as ever over what had happened to him.
The week passed in this fashion, and Monday arrived all too soon. Having promised to attend the Camdens’ entertainment, Margaret felt she must, but she did not look forward to the afternoon. As she put on a white muslin gown sprigged with pink flowers and her straw hat, she watched her reflection with astonishment. It appeared so familiar, so unconcerned. How could her mind and body be so at odds?
Mrs. Camden had arranged tables on the lawn for luncheon, and most of the other guests had arrived when the Mayfields walked out to them. Margaret saw the Twitchels, and was immediately reminded of that long-ago dinner party at which everything had begun. Her own presence seemed to be attracting a good deal of attention.
The Camdens came to greet them, and Mrs. Mayfield told her story. Margaret was just back from a long visit to her aunt. She had had a splendid time. And wasn’t she looking well? Mr. and Mrs. Camden agreed, though they kept casting sidelong glances at her, as if not quite sure whether to speak directly to her. “Come and say hello,” said their hostess finally, when Mrs. Mayfield had run down. “You know everyone, I think.”
At first Margaret’s mother kept close at her side, and there was little discussion of her absence. But when luncheon was served, they were seated at separate tables, and Margaret saw, with a sinking sensation, that Maria Twitchel and Alice Camden were both members of her party. Between the former’s acid inquisitiveness and the latter’s naive wonder, she was probably in for an unpleasant time.
Predictably Mrs. Twitchel leaned forward as soon as they were seated and said, “I understand you had a delightful stay with your aunt, Margaret.”
Margaret nodded unencouragingly.
“Such a distinguished woman, I thought when we met last year. How are her two dear boys?”
But Margaret was not so easily caught. “Hardly boys now, Mrs. Twitchel. Ronald is up at Oxford, and Dennis just finished his last year at Eton. They were not home this summer. Reading parties.”
“Really. How interesting.”
“Do you know that Sir Justin Keighley has been away also?” offered Alice Camden, seemingly unaware of the delicacy of this subject. Eyeing her, Margaret wondered if anyone could be so truly innocent and decided they could not.
“Yes,” agreed Maria Twitchel eagerly. “Is it not strange? We have not seen either of you since your parents’ dinner party in July. It seems so long ago now. And no one seems to know where Sir Justin has gone.” Her eyes bored into Margaret’s. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard, Margaret?”
“I? Why should I hear?”
Mrs. Twitchel shrugged. “Oh, one does, sometimes.”
“I haven’t the least idea where he may be,” replied Margaret truthfully. Her tone seemed to both convince and disappoint her hearers.
“I was so sorry to read about your engagement,” said Alice Camden then. “Mr. Manningham seemed such a nice young man.”
Margaret knew that her parents had sent a notice to the Morning Post announcing the end of her engagement. “Wasn’t he?” she agreed cordially. She was rather enjoying this exchange, something she would never have predicted. “You must look for him when you go to London next season.”
Alice blushed and fell silent.
“Do you plan to go as well?” inquired Mrs. Twitchel, by no means daunted by the new, assertive Margaret. “A second season is always pleasant. One knows just what to do.”
Margaret shrugged.
“Oh, you must insist. I daresay your mother will be only too glad to have you with them once again.” They all looked over at Mrs. Mayfield, who unluckily was at this moment glancing toward her daughter. Everyone smiled nervously and looked away again.
“Peaches,” exclaimed Margaret in an effort to change the subject as dessert was brought out. “How lovely they are. I haven’t had fresh peaches all summer.”
“I thought your aunt had trees.”
Margaret swallowed. Her aunt did; she was immensely proud of her fruit. “They got the blight,” she answered, callously sacrificing her aunt’s orchard and praying she would not tomorrow send them a bushel of its produce.
“A pity,” said Mrs. Twitchel.
The rest of the meal passed relatively calmly, and the gentlemen at the table were allowed to make a few innocuous remarks about the fine weather. Margaret escaped as soon as possible and joined the guests who were beginning to congregate on the terrace, under the awning. Her father was there, and she went to stand at the edge of his group.
“It’s ridiculous,” Mr. Twitchel was saying to him. “All they can talk of is reform, reform. They cannot seem to understand that giving in to these disgraceful tactics—riots, machinery breaking, arson—will only encourage the riffraff who instigate them. And then we shall see chaos. Give that sort of man the vote? Preposterous.”
Mr. Mayfield was nodding sagely when he suddenly froze at the sound of his daughter’s voice saying, “Perhaps if they had the vote, they would not feel obliged to express their wishes in such violent ways.”
The men in the group turned to stare at her. Mr. Twitchel’s mouth fell open, and he looked as astonished as if Mrs. Camden’s pug dog had spoken. “Margaret,” said Mr. Mayfield.
“Surely, Father, you can see how maddening it must be to have no voice in government when the laws passed are grinding your life away? Now, if the laborers had the vote, they would feel—”
“Laborers,” sputtered Mr. Twitchel. “You must be joking.”
“Margaret knows nothing whatever about—”
“Yes, I do, Papa. I have done some reading and visited a number of poor families.” Margaret had become engrossed in the discussion, and the desire to show her new knowledge made her forget the need for concealment. “I saw firsthand how badly off they are. Really, something must be done for them.”
“Margaret,” said Mayfield more weakly. He looked like a boxer who has taken a telling blow.
“If one tries to help them, they merely stop working and come to expect charity,” said Twitchel.
“I can’t believe that is true. Every man I spoke to wanted desperately to work. Often they could not find employment.”
“There is work for anyone who wants it,” countered Mr. Twitchel smugly. “They must learn to accept the jobs there are, rather than reject them as low or degrading.”
“But, Mr. Twitchel, I assure you that there were no jobs. They did not want…”
Their voices had risen, and most of the guests had turned to see what was happening. Margaret’s mother was even now bearing down on the group with a set expression. Abruptly Margaret recalled where she was and to whom she spoke. This was not like talking to Sir Justin, who had been interested in her opinions. Here she was merely a silly young girl, and even had she been respected, she would never convince the likes of John Twitchel, or her parents.
“Margaret,” said her mother in a commanding tone, “I think it is time we were going. You are still overtired from your journey.”
With a slight shrug, Margaret agreed. Her mother, gathering her stunned husband, said their good-byes, and herded them to the carriage in front of the house. Not until they were inside and driving home did she add, “What has come over you, Margaret? I have never been so mortified.”
Margaret smiled sadly. “I appear to have become a radical.”
Her father gasped, but her mother said, “Nonsense. These ridiculous ideas will disappear in time, and you will wonder how you came to be so foolish.” But she did not sound entirely convinced by her own words, and an uneasy silence fell in the vehicle.
Margaret gazed out the window. Everything was dreadful. Baiting the neighbors had been slightly amusing, but she did not care if she never saw any of them again. She wanted only one thing, and that she could not have.
As she thought this she suddenly saw something that made her stiffen and cry, “Stop. Stop the carriage.” The driver, hearing her, pulled up so abruptly that her mother was thrown into her father’s arms, and Margaret hurled herself out into the road. “Jem,” she cried. “Jem Appleby.” And the boy who had been wearily riding toward them on a large cob raised his head, grinned, and waved.