Page 69 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Sutton.” She stood up, surprised to find her head clear.

There was admiration in his eyes. “Yer welcome, miss.”

“Would you like a cup of tea before you leave? And something to eat?” she offered.

“Yeah, but it in’t fittin’, an’ I in’t got time. But it was a right gracious thing ter ask. Good night, miss.” And he went to the door and out of it with a weary, silent tread, and a moment later he was gone.

Margaret went back upstairs slowly, holding on to the banister to keep her balance and stopping on the landing as if she were out of breath. She was barely aware of her hands and feet, and the familiar space with its Chinese screen and jardiniere with flowers seemed blurred and far away. Plague! One word with so vast a meaning the whole world was changed. Was it really the right thing to stay outside as he had told her, or should she be there to do the real work, above all to support Hester so she did not face this horror alone?

No. There was no time for personal need or indulgence. They were troops facing an enemy without feeling or discrimination, one that could kill every human being in Europe-or anywhere, for that matter. The wants or hungers, the pain of one individual could not matter. She must stay outside and raise money, take them supplies, keep them from being cut off from all help. And she should start now. It would be even harder than before because she must watch her tongue all the time. She could not even tell Rathbone the truth, and that silence would cost her dearly, but she knew why Sutton had asked it.

She straightened her shoulders and went back to her own room. Her sister had invited her to go to a betrothal party this evening. The motive behind it was the same one as always; everybody’s mind would be on marriage, an odd, twisting irony that if Rathbone did not love her enough to propose to her, accepting her dedication to the clinic as well, then she would remain single and make her own way in the best manner she could. She would not give up other friendships or freedom of conscience in order to have social status or financial security.

And she would swallow humble pie this evening and change her mind about the invitation. She went downstairs at a run to request her mother to send the footman, posthaste, with a message to beg Marielle to wait for her. She would be there as soon as she could dress appropriately and have the carriage convey her.

Her mother was too delighted with victory to question it, and obliged with alacrity.

Margaret had dressed with more flair and high fashion than she normally wished to; it was not really to her taste. This gown in warm pinks with a touch of plum was her mother’s choice, and it was more dramatic than she cared to be, but it would draw attention to her, and tonight that was what she needed. She acknowledged Marielle’s rather fulsome compliments as graciously as she could, and entered the party with her head high and her teeth gritted.

She was immediately welcomed by her hostess, a large lady full of bustling goodwill. She had a charming smile and a gown up to the minute in fashion.

“How delightful to see you, Miss Ballinger,” she said, after having welcomed Marielle and her husband. “It has been far too long.” Her wide eyes and the lift of curiosity in her voice made it a question. Some explanation of her absence was required.

“Yes, it has,” Margaret agreed, forcing herself to smile. “I’m afraid I have been involved with work fo

r a charity which has consumed my interest so much I have lost track of time.”

“Oh, good works are most admirable, I’m sure,” her hostess said quickly. “But you must not rob us of your company altogether. And of course your own welfare must also be considered.”

Margaret knew exactly what she meant. It was a young woman’s duty to find a husband for herself, and not remain dependent upon her parents. “I am sure you are right,” she replied, trying to look sweet and agreeable, and finding it required more of an effort than she had anticipated. “And this is such a happy occasion, we shall all feel uplifted by it.”

“Oh, yes!” And her hostess proceeded to sing the praises of her future son-in-law without wishing for any response except perhaps a little envy.

As soon as she had exhibited all the wished-for signs, Margaret excused herself and, with Marielle, moved to the next compatible group of people. Marielle introduced her, with the greatest of ease allowing them to understand that she was unmarried.

Margaret cringed inside. Knowing she needed Marielle’s help, she bore it with grace, but great difficulty. Once or twice it threatened to become unendurable as her mind was filled with a picture of Hester with her sleeves rolled up, her hair falling out of its pins. She could see her face exhausted with days and nights of snatched sleep, unable either to save the sick or to run away from the horror and the death, even had she wanted to. She was trapped, perhaps until she too succumbed to the most terrible of diseases. She might never leave that place, never see Monk again, or anyone whom she loved. What on earth was a little embarrassment to put up with?

“I am sure we have not met before, Miss Ballinger,” a young man was saying to her. He had been introduced as the Honorable Barker Soames. He had floppy brown hair and a mildly superior air of good humor. His tone invited explanation as to why not. His friend Sir Robert Stark was paying only half attention; the rest was on a young lady with auburn hair who was pretending not to look at him while adjusting her fan.

Margaret forced herself to pay attention. She wanted to dismiss him with a cool remark, but her purpose overrode everything else, and she bit her tongue. “We have not,” she replied with a charming smile. “I should have recalled it. I am always aware of those I have spoken to on serious matters, and I cannot imagine you are interested in trivia.”

He was startled. It was certainly not the answer he had expected, and it took him several seconds to adjust his thoughts. “Why no, of course not. I. . I am concerned with all manner of. . of subjects of gravity.” Gravity was the greatest of virtues, and he was as aware of it as she. The very mention of it conjured up a picture of the late and still deeply mourned Prince Albert.

“To be of worth, it is absolutely necessary, don’t you agree?” she pursued. Then, before he could answer and divert the course of the conversation to something easier, she hurried on. “I have been much involved in raising money to fund medicine for the poor and otherwise disadvantaged. We are so incredibly fortunate! We have homes, food, warmth, and we have the means to keep ourselves from falling into the spiral of despair.”

He frowned, unprepared for the degree of gravity she was touching. He had intended theory; she was speaking of reality. It made him uncomfortable.

She saw it in his shift of position, the way his weight moved backwards a little. She could not afford to be sensitive, either for him or for herself. She gazed very briefly around the room with its bright, chattering company, the plump arms of the women, the pink cheeks, and the freshly barbered faces of the men. Then for an instant she saw it in her mind as it would be if they failed; the wasted flesh, the fever, the despair, the sick no one dared go near to nurse, the dead no one buried. In weeks these people could be so many corpses, their laughter silent.

She forced the image away.

“I admire generosity enormously,” she went on. “Don’t you? I see it as a great part of Christian duty.” Now was no time to be squeamish about coercion. She added the final twist. “Of course, within the bounds of what we can afford! The last thing I should wish is for anyone to feel they have to give what is beyond their means. That would be quite cruel. Debt must be such a misery.”

The Honorable Barker Soames looked urgently at his friend, hoping for rescue. However, his friend was now giving Margaret his full attention, and tasting a certain enjoyment in the situation.

“For the sick, you say, Miss Ballinger? What particular charity would that be? One of the African ones, I daresay?” he asked.

“No, it is one here at home,” Margaret answered, now far more careful. She was perfectly happy to bend the truth a little-the need was desperate-but she did not wish to be caught out. “For young women and children in the Farringdon Road area. It is a clinic that treats injuries, and at the moment is trying to give food and shelter to many struck down with pneumonia. It is most kind of you to care sufficiently to take an interest.” She put a warmth into her voice as if he had already offered a gift.

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