Page 24 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“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.

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