A Radical Arrangement by Jane Ashford

nothing of nursing, and it seemed to her that Keighley must die of his wound if he were left to her care. Indeed, she was terrified once or twice in the night that he was dying.
    Soon after dawn, Mrs. Appleby tapped on the door with a pot of steaming tea. “How is he?” she whispered, shaking her head at Keighley’s appearance and at Margaret’s.
    “Not good,” replied the girl. “I really think we must send someone for the doctor as soon as possible. I don’t know what to do for him.”
    Mrs. Appleby nodded. “My youngest son will be home today. He’s been visiting his grandmother. He can ride to Falmouth.”
    “Thank you.”
    The older woman eyed her. “You haven’t slept, miss. I told you to call me if you needed someone to watch him.”
    “I didn’t like to trouble you. And in any case…”
    “Well, me or one of my girls will sit with him now. You must eat something and then sleep a bit. It won’t help matters if you make yourself ill.”
    Wearily Margaret agreed. Keighley had quieted with the coming of dawn. “But I am too restless to sleep,” she replied. “I think I will go out and walk a little. I shan’t be long.”
    “You must take some breakfast first.”
    “Perhaps when I come back. But if one of you could sit with…my brother, I would be very grateful.”
    Mrs. Appleby nodded, looking concerned, and in a few moments Margaret found herself outside the tavern door, in a borrowed shawl, and looking down over the roofs of the village. Gilded with sunrise, they looked almost beautiful, and she stood still a moment to watch the morning brighten above the sea. It was a clear summer day, with the promise of heat.
    Finding a pathway—half alley, half stair—leading down, she walked the short distance to the seawall, which was a sturdy gray stone construction rising fifteen feet above the beach. A cobbled road behind the top curved around the village and back inshore on either side; at the bottom a narrow stretch of sand was washed by small waves.
    Margaret took deep breaths of the sea air and soon found herself enough refreshed to appreciate the beauty of her surroundings. Her parents’ land in Devon was in the midst of rich green farm country, and it was lovely. But this was a different landscape, one that attracted her more. She walked the whole half circle of the seawall. Nearly every house had a small garden planted with flowering shrubs and vines that clambered over the walls and roofs. The warming sun caused their scents to fill the air. As she stood at the shore and looked up, the whole village seemed like some fairy-tale castle of white tiers and blossoms.
    Margaret strolled about for more than an hour before she guiltily remembered her responsibilities and returned to the Red Lion, where she found a plentiful breakfast waiting, and Mrs. Appleby insisted she eat before going up to Keighley again. “Jemmy got back just now,” she told the girl. “I sent him along for the doctor. Can’t expect them before afternoon, but I’ve hopes they’ll come then.” She grimaced. “I’ve sent word there’s a gentleman ill—that should bring him.”
    Margaret looked anxious.
    “Don’t you be worriting. Annie’s with him now. She nursed her sisters and brothers through the ague two winters ago. She’s a fine nurse. Never lost a one, we didn’t.”
    This sounded hopeful. “Do you think,” ventured Margaret, “that she would be willing to share the nursing with me? I would pay her something, of course, for her trouble.”
    “You must ask her that. But I’m sure she’d be willing. And a bit of extra money wouldn’t come amiss. Annie’s to marry Jack Thompson in the autumn and set up her own house.”
    “I’ll ask her at once,” said Margaret, rising from the table. “Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Appleby.”
    “It’s little we’ve done. You should have fetched me in the night. I meant to wake on my own, but I was that tired.”
    “It was all right,” Margaret