Page 82 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

Rathbone spent the rest of the day catching up on other work he had put aside in order to prepare for the Gould case, and much of the following morning also.

However, his mind was made up regarding Margaret. Time was precious, far more so than he had appreciated until now. He had dithered on the brink of asking her to marry him. It was both cowardly and foolish. He had written to her and dispatched the letter by messenger, inviting her to dinner that evening, and rather than wait till this crisis was past, whatever the relief, or the irretrievable loss, he would tell her his feelings and ask her to marry him.

As he dressed, regarding himself unusually critically in the glass, he was aware with surprise that he had taken it for granted that she would accept. It had not occurred to him until this moment that it was possible she would not.

Then he realized why the nerves in his stomach were jumping and there was a tightness in his throat. It was not that she might decline. Everything in society and in her personal circumstances dictated that she accept, and he was perfectly certain that there was no other suitor she was considering. She was far too honest to have allowed him to court her had there been. She would accept him. The question that turned and twisted inside him was would she love him? She would be loyal, because loyalty was in her nature. She would be gentle, even-tempered, generous of spirit, but she would have done that for anyone. It was not enough. To have all that, not because she loved him but because it was a matter of her honor that she should give it, would be a refinement of torture he could not bear to face. Yet if he did not ask her, he had already chosen failure.

He took a hansom to call on her, and this time he found Mrs. Ballinger’s attentions even more difficult to receive gracefully. His emotions were far too raw to expose to her acute perception. He had no layer of wit with which to defend himself, and he found parrying her enquiries extremely hard work. He was relieved when Margaret was unfashionably punctual; in fact, he was deeply grateful for it.

He offered her his arm, bade Mrs. Ballinger a good evening, and went out to the waiting hansom just a fraction more hastily than was graceful.

“Have you heard anything more from Monk?” Margaret asked as soon as he had given the cabbie instructions. “What is happening? Has he heard from Hester?”

“Yes, I have seen Monk again,” he replied. “He came to my chambers yesterday morning, but he had heard nothing from Portpool Lane. I know no more than you do.”

She made a tiny sound of desperation. “How was he?”

How could he protect her from pain? To love and cherish her was the privilege he was seeking to obtain for the rest of their lives. Surely he should begin now?

“He is trying very hard to find evidence to help Gould’s trial,” he replied. “It starts tomorrow.”

“Sir Oliver!” she said simply. “Please do not patronize me. I asked you because I wished to know the truth. If it is a confidence you cannot tell me, then say so, but do not tell me something untrue simply because you believe it is what I wish to hear. How is Monk?”

He felt powerfully rebuked. “He looks dreadful,” he said honestly. “I have never seen anyone suffer as he is doing now. And I know of no way to help him. I feel as if I am watching a man drown, and standing by with my arms folded.”

She turned to face him, the carriage lamps of the passing traffic throwing a flickering light on her face. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That at least I believe. And please don’t blame yourself like that; no one can help. There are not many occasions that friendship cannot improve, but I think this might be one of them. We can only do our best, and be there if the time should come when there is something to do.”

There was no answer that was large enough, so he made none. A kind of peace settled between them. He thought how fortunate he was to be sitting beside her, and the resolve within him to ask her to marry him became even more certain.

They arrived at the home of their hosts and alighted. They were welcomed in their turn, there being over a score of guests. It was a very formal affair, women in magnificent gowns, richly embroidered, jeweled combs and tiaras glittering in their hair, diamonds on earlobes and around pale throats.

Margaret wore very little adornment, only a simple pearl necklace, and he was surprised how anything so modest could please him so much. It had a purity that was like a quiet statement of her own worth.

Within a few moments they were absorbed into the buzz of conversation. He had been accustomed to such parties for years, but he had never found it quite so intensely difficult to chatter politely without saying anything of meaning. He recognized several people and did not wish to become involved in exchanges with them because he knew he could not concentrate. His usual ease of manner was impossible. Emotions threatened to break through his composure, and it required a constant vigilance to conceal them. He wanted to protect Margaret from the intrusive speculation that was customary. He had escorted her several times now, and it was inevitable that many would be waiting for him to make some declaration. They would be watching her for pride, disappointment, desperation. It was all intrusive, unintentionally cruel, and a part of society they both took for granted.

Far more deeply than that, he wanted to protect her from the fear she felt for Hester and the sense of helplessness because there was nothing she could do beyond continuing to raise money.

“How charming to see you aga

in, Miss Ballinger,” Mrs. Northwood said meaningfully, looking first at Margaret, then at Rathbone.

Rathbone drew in his breath to answer her, then saw Margaret’s face and realized she did not care. She had caught the implication and it barely touched her. He felt a rush of admiration for her. How beautiful she was in her passion and integrity, beside these bright and trivial women. What did a little social prurience matter, compared with the horror that was going on less than two miles away in Portpool Lane?

He moved a little closer to her.

Mrs. Northwood noticed it, and her eyes widened.

There was at least a half an hour before dinner would be announced, but they were hemmed in by people on all sides. He could hardly ask her to find a place where they could speak alone. He did not even know exactly what he was going to say. Such things should be graceful, romantic, not blurted out in the fear they would be interrupted or overheard. He should have invited her to a completely different kind of function. What on earth had made him choose this?

But he knew the answer. She would accept this because it gave her the opportunity to seek funds again. She would have refused a more charming situation, more romantic, where they could be alone and then it would have become embarrassing, and worst of all, contrived. And he enjoyed being with her in company. He looked around at the other people present and was proud that it was she on his arm and not one of them. He found himself smiling. He would create a situation where he could speak to her, even if it was on the way home.

Lady Pamela Brimcott was coming towards them. She was in her mid-thirties, handsome, and formidable. He had defended her brother Gerald on a charge of embezzlement-unsuccessfully. At least she had considered it so, because Gerald had been found guilty even though the sentence had been relatively lenient due to Rathbone’s plea of mitigating circumstances. Actually, Gerald was greedy and selfish, and Rathbone had believed him guilty as charged. But it was his duty to be advocate, not judge.

“Good evening, Oliver,” Pamela said coolly. Her gaze moved to Margaret. “I presume this is Miss Ballinger, whom I hear about so often? I daresay Oliver has told you as much about me?”

Rathbone felt the heat flood up his face. At one time he had courted Pamela, had even considered she would be a suitable wife. That had been before he met Hester and realized that suitable was a description without passion or laughter, or necessarily even friendship. Thank heaven his instinct had prevailed. He could see the enmity in Pamela’s eyes, and knew she had not forgiven him for either of the things in which she believed he had let her down. She very probably would not have married him then-he had had no title-but she would have liked to be asked.

“I’m afraid he has not mentioned you,” Margaret replied, her tone polite and implying regret.

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