Margaret’s plan was not really a very clever one. She had had little experience with any sort of subterfuge, and it was immediately apparent to Mrs. Mayfield, when she entered her daughter’s room less than a quarter hour after the girl had left it, that something was wrong. A hasty examination of the wardrobe told her all, and she hurried to lay her discovery before her husband in the breakfast room.
“Run away?” exclaimed Ralph Mayfield. “Margaret?”
His wife was working her fingers into a pair of ivory kid gloves. She had been dressed to go out for some time. “I know it seems unbelievable, but Margaret was under a great strain. We must send to the stables, of course, to make sure, but I am satisfied that she has gone.”
“What shall we do? I must go after her, I suppose. But where?”
“I don’t think so,” answered Mrs. Mayfield.
“What do you mean?”
“I think we should wait for the outcome of my talk with Sir Justin.”
“You still intend to go?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And Margaret?
“An hour or two will make no difference. She may even have second thoughts and return in that time. In any case she hasn’t the sense or the courage to run far. We can fetch her when we like.”
Mr. Mayfield looked doubtful. “Something might happen to her. I don’t like to think of her out on the roads alone.”
“Something already has happened to her,” replied his wife brusquely. “And now I must go and see what I can do about it. I shouldn’t be long.” She swept out into the hall and to her waiting barouche, leaving her husband frowning into his coffee cup.
Sir Justin Keighley, though a late riser in town, was always out of bed early in the country, and he had already breakfasted and was about to go out riding when Mrs. Mayfield arrived. He greeted her with annoyed resignation, but no surprise, and ushered her into his study. He had known that he had not heard the last of the Mayfield affair and anticipated facing Mrs. Mayfield before it was over, a confrontation he felt fully able to dominate.
“You know, of course, why I have come,” the lady began.
Keighley bowed his head in acknowledgment.
“My husband has told me your story and your position. I must say I am disappointed in you, Sir Justin.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “Surely not. From what I have gathered of your opinion of me, it must have been just what you expected.”
Mrs. Mayfield met his hazel eyes stonily. “I never thought you without honor.”
He inclined his head ironically again. “We won’t dispute the point, since it does not enter here.”
“You do not think your treatment of my daughter…”
“Mrs. Mayfield, if your husband indeed told you my ‘story,’ you know that I did nothing whatever to your daughter. I am sorry that she has been upset, but I haven’t the faintest notion why.”
“Considering the two personalities involved, that is rather difficult to believe, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. I am barely acquainted with Miss Mayfield.”
His guest drew herself up. “Do you dare to suggest…”
“I suggest nothing, except that you and your husband are making a great deal too much out of a trivial matter. I will not be forced to marriage over this, madam. You can be sure of that.”
Meeting his gaze, Mrs. Mayfield realized she would not move him with accusations or threats. “Margaret has run away,” she said.
“What?”
“Run away. I discovered it this morning.”
“But why?”
Mrs. Mayfield debated with herself for a moment. Should she tell him the true reason? He would find that very amusing, no doubt. “Because we told her you refused to marry her,” she answered. “She could not face the disgrace.”
Sir Justin Keighley’s hazel eyes flashed. “You stupid woman. How could you treat your own daughter so?”
Though she clenched her fists, Mrs. Mayfield held her temper in check. “I thought it best that she know the truth.”
“Indeed? Well, I hope you see your mistake now. When Mayfield brings her back, you must—”
“Oh, we shan’t go after her.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We will let her go. It seems best. She is irretrievably ruined.” Though she did not look directly at Keighley when she said this, she watched his reaction from the corner of her eye.
“You cannot be serious.”
Mrs. Mayfield shrugged. “What is she to do if she returns home? Margaret is not strong enough to face down gossip.”
“You will abandon a girl of, what, eighteen or nineteen? Do you have any idea what is likely to happen to her?”
The woman shook her head and looked down. “I suppose it is God’s will.”
“God’s…” He paused and surveyed her. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
“You have wrapped that girl in cotton wool since she was born. You won’t let her go now.”
Mrs. Mayfield met his eyes squarely. “There is nothing I can do for her. It would be more cruel to bring her back to face the world’s scorn.” She rose. “I am not to blame for my poor daughter’s plight. You are. And you are the only one who can make amends.”
“Nonsense,” replied Keighley automatically. His mind appeared to be elsewhere. Mrs. Mayfield watched him carefully. “Where could she go?” he added. “To London?”
His guest’s eyes glinted, though she kept her face impassive. “Oh, no. She has no friends there. I suppose she would go west.”
“To Cornwall?”
“Yes. We have visited several times in Penzance.”
“Ah. She has friends there, then.” He seemed to relax a little.
“Not any longer.” Keighley glanced sharply up at her, but Mrs. Mayfield was absorbed in pulling on her gloves. “I must go. Ralph is prostrate over this affair. He mustn’t be left alone.”
“Too ill to travel, I suppose?” said Sir Justin sarcastically.
“Much,” agreed the other. “Good day.” As she turned away, Mrs. Mayfield again examined him from the corner of her eye. What she saw seemed to satisfy her, and her expression as she left the house was much less unpleasant than when she arrived.
Keighley paced his study uneasily for several minutes after she had gone. Finally he leaned on the mantelpiece and tapped it with impatient fingers. “She can’t have been telling me the truth,” he said aloud. “They must go after the chit.” He tapped his fingers and frowned, recalling all he knew about the Mayfields. They were the most pompous, stiff-necked, narrow-minded people he had ever encountered. Was it possible that they would abandon a daughter they believed disgraced, seeing that as the easiest way out? He could not quite reject the possibility.
That girl is no more fit to fend for herself than a lame sheep, he thought. He pictured various horrible fates that might befall her. I shouldn’t have teased her. I could see that she wasn’t up to it. He thought again of the previous evening, remembering Margaret’s inexplicable behavior. She’s practically half-witted, he concluded. Then, with a sigh half exasperated, half resigned, he rang for a servant. “Is my horse ready?” he asked when the bell was answered.
“Yes, sir, the groom has been waiting.”
“Good. I have just remembered some business I must take care of. I may not return until late.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sir Justin strode out, and as he mounted his horse he thought that it would scarcely take more than a day for him to catch the girl and return her to her home, with a few choice words for her parents as he did so.
* * *
For the first hour Margaret had ridden in an agony of apprehension. The grooms had looked at her strangely when she settled her bandbox before her on the saddle, and she was terrified that they would fetch her mother to stop her or send someone in pursuit. But as the time passed and no one came she relaxed enough to allow other worries to intrude. When she had traveled down to Cornwall before, it had been by coach, so she had a hazy recollection of the roads, but she was afraid to ask the way of strangers. Indeed, the people she met, some of whom looked surprised to see a young lady riding unaccompanied with a parcel before her, were her chief concern. Novel reading and her mother’s strictures had given her vivid pictures of what happened to lone women who had anything to do with unknown persons.
Yet no one accosted her, and gradually the beating of her heart slowed a bit. Perhaps she could manage this journey. She need only keep going west and south, and surely there would be signposts. When she reached Penzance… Here, Margaret faltered, but her memories of that town were so filled with sunshine and flowers that she could not believe she would have trouble there.
The July morning grew warm, and Margaret’s blue cloth riding habit became oppressive. It also occurred to her that she had done nothing about food. Though she was only a little hungry now, she would have to get something to eat before the day was out, and that meant an inn, a prospect that made her quake. She had known that she could not make this journey in one day, but she had been putting off thinking of inns and other complications, concentrating on getting away from the neighborhood of home. Now she faced the fact that she would have to apply to strangers for shelter, and the idea made her heart start to pound again.
Always her parents, her governess, or some servant had been with her when she traveled, making all the arrangements and dealing with people. The only time she had spoken to strangers was during the season, and then she had said little to a few carefully screened by her mother. How could she engage a room for the night? What would she say? She trembled even imagining it.
This moment was probably the lowest of Margaret’s whole life. Plodding along on her docile mare, wearily balancing the bandbox before her, she considered turning around and going home again. Perhaps it would be easier just to do what they asked. Perhaps marriage to Sir Justin would not be too dreadful. Yet the thought of it made her shiver, even in the July heat. And suddenly something happened to her. In the past twenty-four hours her life had been revolutionized. She had experienced feelings wholly alien to her, and she had taken action with a determination that astonished her, now that she thought about it. Here she was, riding along alone, and nothing dreadful had occurred. The sky had not fallen; passersby did not stare at her in horror. Perhaps, she thought, I can do more than I know. Perhaps I do not need Mama or the others to tell me how to go on.
For a while she turned this original idea over in her mind wonderingly. It was both exciting and frightening. Then it was dissipated by the abrupt realization that she was lost. The road ahead curved north. She had been riding steadily southwest for more than two hours and was confident that she had passed into Cornwall by this time, for their house was near the Devon border. Though Penzance was still miles away, she had felt she was making progress. To turn north would be disastrous. Yet her only other choice was a narrow, grassy lane that did not look at all well traveled. It probably led to a farm or village or was a dead end.
When she considered turning around and retracing her path, however, Margaret decided on the lane. At least it went in the right direction; she could not face losing ground. As it turned out, this was a wise decision, for the track soon connected with a larger road that looked vaguely familiar, and a signpost at the crossing told her that she had passed beyond Plymouth and was well into Cornwall. She was so elated by this discovery that she found the courage to halt at an inn and buy a supply of bread and cheese. Though she could not bring herself to remain there to eat it, this minor victory raised her spirits further, and she continued her journey happily into the afternoon.
* * *
Some miles behind her, Justin Keighley was in a far different humor. He had thought that finding a solitary young lady on the road would be relatively simple, and that it would be accomplished during the morning. But his inquiries had so far produced little helpful information. Two of the many people he had asked had seen a girl who must be Margaret, and these two were widely enough separated to convince him that he was indeed on the track. But her route appeared exasperatingly eccentric, for several idlers who should have seen her if she had taken the most direct way denied all knowledge of such a traveler. He had begun to regret his impulsive departure almost immediately, and by noontime, when he stopped at a roadside inn to eat, he had nearly decided to give up what he was beginning to characterize as a ridiculous quest.
Two things altered his mind. He got further news of Margaret from the innkeeper, who had sold her food not more than an hour since. And the gross talk and manners of a fellow diner reminded him of what could be in store for the girl if she was not brought back. He returned to the saddle physically refreshed and mentally hardened. He would find the chit, and he would take her home, with a scold that she should never forget.
The sun moved down the western sky, and the day grew hotter. The two travelers rode on at about the same pace, for Keighley was hampered by the necessity of making inquiries along the way. But at last, when he had been assured by four observers in a row that they had seen Margaret, he concluded that she was keeping to the coast road, which had bent down toward the eastern shore some time since, and he urged his horse forward. If his luck held, he would catch up with her before twilight. It was deuced awkward to be so far from home, but he would manage some acceptable arrangement for the night and get her back tomorrow. As he thought this, he cursed the girl again for her stupidity. He had never known such a bacon-brained female, and it would be very satisfying to tell her so to her face.
Margaret had given up the thought of pursuit and was actually enjoying the sight of the sea in the distance and the scent of flowers in the air, though the need to find a room for the night loomed before her. She was also very tired, never having ridden for so long before, and she had let her mare slow to a plodding walk. When she heard hoofbeats behind her, she did not even turn until they were quite close. But then a tremor of doubt shot through her and she looked, only to find her darkest fears realized. Sir Justin himself had come after her—and alone. At once her heart started to pound. She kicked her mount convulsively, startling that gentle animal into an awkward canter.
“Miss Mayfield,” called Sir Justin sharply. “I have come to take you home. It is no use running farther.”
His voice unsettled her so much that her grip on the bandbox loosened, and it fell into the road, bursting open and scattering her things in the dust. But she did not pause for an instant, merely kicking her mare again and holding the reins tightly as the combination of this unusual command and the fluttering in the road catapulted the horse into a wild gallop.
Keighley also urged his horse forward, and as it was much the more powerful mount, he was soon closing the distance between them. In a few moments they were abreast and he was leaning out to grasp her horse’s head and pull both to a stop.
“No,” cried Margaret, trying to fling herself down even before they stopped moving. “I won’t go with you. Leave me alone.”
Holding his own horse with his powerful knees, Keighley kept one hand on Margaret’s reins and, with the other, imprisoned her left arm in an iron grip. “Don’t be a fool,” he snapped, “or try to be less of one, at any rate.”
Margaret lost her head. Fumbling in the pocket of her gown, she drew out the pistol that she had taken from her father’s drawer just before she left the house. She knew it was loaded; her mother was always complaining about it. “Let me go,” she insisted, waving the gun in the air so that Keighley could see it.
“Where did you get that? Put it away at once and stop being ridiculous.”
This seemed the last straw. After all she had been through, to be called a fool and ridiculous. She cocked the pistol as she had seen her father do and pointed it at him. “Let go of me and go away.”
He jerked her other arm impatiently and started to speak, but the abrupt movement jostled the gun, and with a deafening roar it went off, leaving Margaret dazed and trembling. As she watched, frozen with horror, a red stain appeared on Keighley’s left shoulder and spread.
His initial look of astonishment altered to a grimace, his grip loosened, and slowly he bent and slipped from his horse into a heap on the road.
Margaret’s mouth dropped open, and her blue eyes bulged. She hadn’t meant to shoot him. She had just wanted to frighten him away, so that he would leave her alone. Drops of blood began to show in the dust beside Keighley’s shoulder. His horse sidled uneasily and whickered. Somewhere in the field beside the road, a lark trilled. Margaret burst into frantic, desperate sobs.