A Radical Arrangement by Jane Ashford Page A

curiously.
    “Nothing.” She was not going to tell him these thoughts.
    He gazed at her.
    “Why do you talk as you do?”
    “What?”
    Margaret flushed again. “I mean, what made you believe as you do? You are so…so vehement in your opinions. Why?”
    Keighley put his chin in his hand and frowned. Margaret followed each move. She was intensely interested in the answer to her questions, though she had not known this until she voiced them. From their first meeting, she had been puzzled and unsettled by Keighley’s emotional effect on her. He had made her react in unaccustomed ways and with unheard-of passion. And now he himself had shown feelings deeper and more moving than anyone she had known before.
    “I suppose,” replied Sir Justin slowly, “that it was my father.”
    “Was he also…” She paused in confusion.
    “A radical?” He chuckled. “In his way, I suppose he was, though not as I am. He was much more respectable.” Keighley’s smile lingered. “He was inspired by the French Revolution in the beginning. That will shock you. He was an idealist who thought he saw his theories coming to life, only to be forced to watch their failure. That would have discouraged many men, I imagine, but not he. He carried on.”
    “What did he do?”
    “Oh, all manner of things. He wrote pamphlets and books. He spoke wherever they would have him. He even went abroad to see conditions for himself, and very nearly did not get back, I understand.” He grimaced. “I have never seen my mother so angry as when she speaks of that incident.”
    “Was he in Parliament?”
    “No, indeed. He was not the sort of man to attract votes. Most of his neighbors thought him a bit mad.” Keighley’s tone was warm.
    Margaret wondered at it. He sounded like a very odd sort of father. “He was busy with your estate, I suppose. It is large.”
    “Passably. But he never concerned himself with it for more than five minutes at a time, as far as I know. My mother managed everything, superbly. She is amazingly sharp. I have always thought that my grandfather must have chosen her for his son because of her wits, though she was not bad-looking.” He chuckled again.
    “They were a pair, my parents. I’m certain they were very attached to each other. I remember them so. My mother took care of all the practical details of living while my father spent his days dreaming in his study, and sometimes writing. When they met at dinner, each was remarkably happy, having passed the time as he wished. And the conversations at that table! I always joined them when there were no guests, from the very first, and I can remember endless, passionate debates about everything under the sun. They were both people of strong opinions, and they loved airing and defending them. Sometimes I think they took opposite sides just for the joy of battle. My sister and I plunged headlong into it as soon as we were able.”
    Fascinated, Margaret compared this vivid vision to the dinner-table conversations of her childhood. The contrast was marked.
    “Do your parents never debate politics?” asked Keighley curiously. “Among their friends, I mean. I would not expect them to do so with me.”
    “They do,” responded Margaret doubtfully. “But not in the way you describe.”
    “Ah?”
    “They all seem to agree from the start. I mean, they do discuss things, but they only say how right their position is and how wrong that of the others. There isn’t any…battle.”
    “I see.” Keighley’s tone was dry. “Well, I think that answers your question. I was taught that no idea is right until it is proved against the strongest and cleverest opposition. That is why I ‘talk as I do.’ I am championing my position against all comers. I cannot help throwing every resource at my command into the effort.”
    Margaret nodded slowly, taking this in. He watched her, wondering for the first time what it must have been like to grow up in the Mayfield household. For him it