The Shifting Tide (12 page)

“Oh, she would not be so foolish!” Mrs. Ballinger dismissed the idea with a light laugh. “Her regard for you is far too deep for her not to listen to you, Sir Oliver.” Her voice was warm, full of assurance, as if she too held him as dearly.

He wished that that were true. Or did he? Hester would have been furious with him if he had tried to dictate matters of conscience to her. She would not have allowed even Monk to do that. In fact, he could very clearly remember occasions when Monk had been unwise enough to try!

“I have too much respect for Margaret to attempt to influence her against her beliefs, Mrs. Ballinger,” he replied.

Mrs. Ballinger looked both alarmed and excited, as if she had gone fishing and caught a whale she had no idea how to land, nor, on the other hand, how to let go. She started to say something, then changed her mind and sat on the edge of her seat, her lips a little parted.

“Added to which,” Rathbone went on, unable to endure the silence, “her clinic is run by one of my dearest friends, and I would not dream of attempting to rob her of her most loyal supporter. It has been the calling of great women down the centuries to care for those less fortunate and to do it with compassion and without judgment. No doctor has demanded first whether his patient is worthy of healing, only whether he needs it. The same is true of those who nurse.”

“My goodness!” she said in amazement. “I had no idea you were so deeply involved, Sir Oliver! It must be a far more noble endeavor than I had appreciated. You work very closely with it, then? Margaret did not make me aware of that.” She was quite breathless at the thought.

Rathbone silently swore to himself. Why on earth was he being so clumsy? In court he could see a pitfall yards off and evade it with such elegance it exasperated his adversaries. And he had outwitted matchmaking women like Margaret’s mother for twenty years or more, admittedly not always with quite such grace, although his skill had increased with time.

“I don’t work with it at all,” he denied firmly. “But I have occasionally been of assistance with advice because of my long friendship with Mrs. Monk.” As soon as the words were out he was ashamed of them. It was cowardly. He had been the prime mover in obtaining the premises for them, even if it was Hester who had put the words into his mouth. And it had been for Margaret’s sake that he had abandoned all his life’s careful rules to do it. And if he were truly, scrupulously honest, he would also admit that for a few wild moments he had thoroughly enjoyed it. He had often heard it said that a really good barrister must have something of the actor in him. Perhaps that was truer than he had appreciated.

“It is through her that I am aware of the work,” he added defensively. “And, of course, Margaret has also told me, from time to time. I have the deepest admiration for them.” That was true, and he met her eyes as he said it. His mind was filled with memories of Hester. She would risk herself to struggle against injustice with a passion he had seen in no one else. He had loved her, and yet hesitated to propose marriage. Could he really face such a willful companion in his life, a woman with unreasoning, unturnable conviction, such fierce hunger of the soul?

Mrs. Ballinger was staring at him, confused by his words, and yet also satisfied. She felt the emotion in him, even if she did not understand it, and she interpreted it as she wished.

There was a slight sound behind him as the door opened and Margaret came in. He rose to his feet and turned to face her.

She was dressed in a deep plum pink, a color in which he had never seen her before. It flattered her wonderfully, giving her skin a glow and making her eyes look bluer. He had never thought of her as lovely until now, but quite suddenly he realized that she was. It gave him extraordinary pleasure to see her, more than he had imagined it could. There was a gentleness in her, a dignity in the way she stood waiting for him, confident and yet not eager. She would not allow her mother’s ambition either to embarrass him or to move her to defend herself and retreat. There was a pool of calmness inside her which made her nothing like Hester, and it was that serenity which he loved. It was unique to her.

“Good evening, Miss Ballinger,” he said with a smile. “It would seem redundant to ask if you are well.”

She smiled back at him. “Good evening, Sir Oliver. Yes, I am indeed well. And ready to face the arbiters of both musical and charitable taste.”

“So am I,” he agreed. He inclined his head to Mrs. Ballinger and she rose to escort them out, proprietorially, beaming with an imminent sense of victory.

“I’m sorry,” Margaret murmured as they crossed the hall.

The footman assisted her with her cloak, then opened the front door for them.

Rathbone knew precisely what she meant. “It is merely habit,” he assured her, equally softly. “I no longer notice.”

She seemed about to respond, perhaps even to say that she knew he was lying to comfort her, but the footman had gone with them to the waiting hansom and was well within hearing.

Once they were seated and moving it seemed ridiculous to pursue what had been only a politeness after all. He was aware of her sitting next to him. She wore very little perfume. He detected only what might have been the faintest breath of roses, or merely the warmth of her skin. It was one of the many things about her that pleased him.

“How is Hester?” he enquired.

“Working very hard,” she replied. “And concerned for the financial management of the clinic. Although we have just admitted a woman who seems to be suffering from pneumonia, and the man who brought her gave us an extremely generous donation, as well as paying for her keep.”

Her voice was polite, concerned, and he could not see her face clearly in the flickering light of street lamps and other carriages as they passed. It was tactless of him to have asked after Hester so quickly, almost as if she were the one in his thoughts, and not Margaret.

“Two weeks?” he said aloud. “That’s not very long.” He was anxious for her, and he was startled to realize that he was worried for the clinic as well. “I did not know it was so . . . so narrow a margin.”

“People are more willing to give to other causes,” she explained. “I have tried most of those I know of, but Hester has a list from Lady Callandra, and we are going to try that.”

“We?” he said quickly. “It would be far better if it were you alone. Hester is . . .”

“I know.” She smiled with both amusement and affection. The smile lit her face till the gentleness in her seemed to be something so powerful he could almost have reached out and felt its warmth. “I was using the plural rather loosely,” she went on. “She has given me the names, and I shall approach them as I have the opportunity.”

“Why does Lady Callandra not do so herself?”

“You didn’t know?” She seemed surprised. “She is leaving England to live in Vienna. She is to marry Dr. Beck. I expect Hester will tell you as soon as she has the chance. She is delighted for her, of course, but it does mean that we do not have Lady Callandra to turn to anymore. She was superb at raising funds. We shall just have to do it ourselves from now on.” She looked away from him, forward and a little sideways, as if she had some interest in the passing traffic.

Was she self-conscious because she had spoken of marriage? Had she been thinking of it? Was it really what occupied the minds of all young women? If he asked her to marry him, she would undoubtedly accept. He could not be unaware of her regard for him. And he was supremely eligible. Of course that did not mean that she loved him, only that time was on her heels and society expected it of her.

“I am sure you will succeed,” he said. “I must write immediately and congratulate Callandra. I hope I am not too late. I daresay her household will know where to forward a letter to reach her.”

“I imagine so,” she replied, keeping her face towards the window.

Ten minutes later they alighted and were welcomed to the soiree. The large withdrawing room was already crowded with people: men in the traditional black and white, older women in rich colors like so many autumnal flowers, the younger ones in whites and creams and palest pinks. Jewels glittered in the gleam of chandeliers. Everywhere there was the hum of conversation, the occasional clink of glasses, and the trill of slightly forced laughter.

Rathbone was aware of Margaret’s sudden tension, as if she faced some kind of ordeal. He wished he could have made it easier for her. It hurt him that she should have to protect herself from speculation, rather than receive the kind of respect he knew she deserved. She had courage and kindness far deeper than any of the achievements that passed for value there. And yet to say so would have been absurd. It would have been so very obviously a defense where no attack had been made.

Lady Craven came forward to welcome them.

“Delightful to see you, Sir Oliver,” she said charmingly. “I am so pleased you honored us with your company. We don’t see you nearly often enough. And Miss—Miss Ballinger, isn’t it? You are most welcome. I hope you will enjoy the music. Mr. Harding is highly talented.”

“So I have heard,” Rathbone replied. “I expect the evening to be a complete success. No doubt a great deal of money will be raised for good causes.”

Lady Craven was a little taken aback at his bluntness, but she was equal to any social occasion. “We hope so. We have been careful in our preparations. Every detail has been attended to with the greatest thought. Charity is surely next to Godliness, is it not?”

“I believe it is,” Rathbone agreed warmly. “And there are a great many sorely in need of your generosity.”

“Oh, I daresay! But it is Africa we have in mind. So noble, don’t you think? Brings out the very best in people.” And with that she sailed away, head high, a smile on her lips.

“Africa!” Margaret said between her teeth. “I wish them well with their hospitals, but they don’t have to have everything!”

They took seats in the very front row.

“Are you sure?” Rathbone said, thinking of less obvious seats farther back.

“Perfectly,” she replied, sitting down gracefully, and with one simple movement rearranging her skirts. “If I am here right in the middle it will be impossible for me to speak to anyone without being appallingly rude to the artist. I shall have to listen to him with uninterrupted concentration, which is exactly what I should like to do. Even if anyone should speak to me, I shall be completely unable to reply. I shall look embarrassed and regretful, and say nothing at all.”

Perhaps he should have hidden his smile—people were looking at him—but he did not. “Bravo,” he agreed. “I shall sit beside you, and I promise not to speak.”

It was a promise he was happy to keep because the music was indeed superb. The man was young, wild-haired and generally eccentric in appearance, but he played his instrument as if it were a living part of himself and held the voice of his dreams.

An hour later, when silence engulfed them, the moment before the eruption of applause, Rathbone turned to look at Margaret and saw the tears on her cheek. He lifted his hand to touch hers, then changed his mind. He wanted to keep the moment in memory rather than break it. He would not forget the wonder in her eyes, the amazement, or the emotion she was not ashamed to show. He realized that he had never heard her apologize for honesty or pretend to be unaffected by pity or anger. She felt no desire to conceal her beliefs or affect to be invulnerable. There was a purity in her that drew him like light in a darkening sky. He would have defended her at any cost, because he would not even have thought of himself, only of preserving what must never be lost.

The applause roared around them, and he joined in. There were murmurs of approval gaining in volume.

The artist bowed, thanked them, and withdrew. For him to play was the purpose and the completion. He did not need the praise and he certainly did not wish to become involved in chatter, however well-meaning.

Lady Craven took the artist’s place and made her plea for generous donations to the cause of medicine and Christianity in Africa, and in turn was greeted with polite applause.

Rathbone felt Margaret stir beside him and was sure he knew what she was thinking.

People began to move. Of course no one would do anything so vulgarly overt as put their hands in their pockets and pull out money, but promises were being made, bankers would be notified, and footmen would be sent on urgent errands tomorrow morning. Money would change hands. Letters of credit would make their way to accounts in London or Africa, or both.

Margaret was very quiet. She barely joined in the conversation that continued around them.

“Such a worthy cause,” Mrs. Thwaite said happily, patting the diamonds around her throat. She was a plump, pretty woman who must have been charming in her youth. “We are so fortunate I always think we should give generously, don’t you?”

Her husband agreed, although he did not appear to be listening to what she said. He looked so bored his eyes were glazed.

“Quite,” a large lady in green said sententiously. “It is no more than one’s duty.”

“I always feel that in the future our grandchildren will consider our greatest achievement was to bring Christianity, and cleanliness, to the Dark Continent,” another gentleman said with conviction.

“If we could do that, it would be,” Rathbone agreed. “As long as we do not do it at the cost of losing it ourselves.” He should have bitten his tongue. It was exactly the sort of thing Hester would have said.

There was a moment’s appalled silence.

“I beg your pardon?” The woman in green raised her eyebrows so high her forehead all but disappeared.

“Perhaps you would care for another drink, Mr. . . .” The bored husband suddenly came to life. “Then again perhaps not,” he added judiciously.

“Rathbone,” Rathbone supplied. “Sir Oliver. I am delighted to meet you, but I cannot have another drink until I have had a first one. I think champagne would be excellent. And one for Miss Ballinger also, if you would be so kind as to attract the footman’s attention. Thank you. I mention losing that sublime charity because we also have a great many good causes at home which need our support. Regrettably, disease is not confined to Africa.”