Page 74 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

If she died in Portpool Lane she would leave an emptiness in his life that nothing else would ever fill.

The hansom stopped and he realized with a jolt that he was at Margaret’s home. He got out, standing in the rain to pay the driver, then ran across the footpath and up the stairs to pull the bell at the door.

The footman answered, but regretted to tell him that Miss Ballinger was out and he could not say when she would return.

Rathbone was bereft. What if she had ignored instruction and gone to the clinic after all? Then she would be in as much danger as Hester. She would suffer horribly. He would never see her again, never marry her. Whatever happened to the rest of London, or England, his own personal future was suddenly cold and dark. How could anyone else compare with her? That was a stupid thought. There were no comparisons. However virtuous, gentle, funny, or clever anyone else might be, it was Margaret he loved.

The footman was waiting patiently.

Rathbone thanked him and left, back out into the teeming rain and the darkness. The hansom had already gone. It hardly mattered. He would walk home. If it took an hour and he was soaked to the skin, he would not notice it.

Rathbone could not sleep, and in the morning he had his manservant draw him a hot bath, but he could not enjoy it. By half past eight he was breakfasted and had sent a note to his office to say he would be late. Then he looked for a hansom to take him back to Margaret’s house. He could not even contemplate what he was going to do if she was still not there. He could not think of going to the clinic to find her, nor could he think of not going. He would give her money, and then he had to go and find this wretched thief of Monk’s and see what could be done to serve justice. At least if anyone had the skill for that, it was he.

The traffic was heavy again. It was the time of day when people were going into the city, tradesmen were beginning their rounds, everybody seemed to be jamming the roads.

At the first traffic congestion everything came to a standstill. Two coachmen were arguing over whose fault it was that a horse had tried to bolt and broken his harness. Rathbone waited a short while, then finally paid his own driver and got out to walk. It was no more than three quarters of a mile farther, and the effort it would take was better than waiting cooped up and sitting.

This time he was more fortunate. The footman informed him that Miss Ballinger was taking breakfast, and he would enquire if she would receive him. Rathbone paced back and forth in the morning room until the man returned and invited him through.

Rathbone tried to compose himself, so as not to embarrass Margaret in front of her parents, should they be there. He followed the footman across the hall and into the long, very formal dining room, where he was drenched with relief to find her alone. She was dressed smartly in a dark suit a little like a riding habit. It was fashionable and extremely becoming, but she looked alarmingly pale.

“Good morning, Sir Oliver,” she said with some reserve. Obviously she had not forgotten his coolness of the other evening. “Would you care for a cup of tea? Or perhaps more? Toast?” she invited him.

“No, thank you.” He sat down, praying she would give the footman leave to go. “I have a legal matter I wish to discuss with you, of a most confidential nature.” He could not wait upon good luck.

“Really?” She raised her eyebrows slightly. She thanked the footman and asked him to leave. She looked guarded, withdrawn, as if she was afraid he was going to hurt her. He found himself ashamed at the thought.

“I know,” he said simply. “Monk came to see me yesterday afternoon. He told me of the situation at Portpool Lane.”

Her eyes widened, dark and incredulous. “He. . told you?” She reached out instinctive

ly and grasped his wrist. “You must say nothing! I was sworn to secrecy, absolute! No exceptions at all! It-”

“I understand,” he cut across her. “Monk told me because he needs me to defend a thief. He believes him to be innocent of murdering a watchman. It is not much-one small act of justice, and to a confessed thief at that-but it’s all I can do.” He felt ashamed saying it. “That, and help with funds. But he warned me not even to ask friends in case my urgency should cause speculation.”

Her face was filled with a relief that set his heart surging, the blood pounding in his veins. There was a wild, almost hysterical gratitude in him that Margaret was not in the clinic, and could not go. Anyway, she was needed to raise funds, to purchase what they needed, and take it to them.

“I know,” she said gently. “I am having to be so much more discreet than I want to be.” She met his eyes, her own brimming with tears. “I think of Hester in there, alone, and how she must feel, and I want to go to help her. I want to tell these people the truth and force them to give all they can, every last penny, but I know it would only drive them into hysterics-at least some of them.” She was shivering, her voice husky. “Fear does terrible things to people. Anyway I promised Sutton, which really means Hester, that I would tell no one. I couldn’t even tell you!”

“I understand!” he said quickly, closing his hand over hers where it lay on his wrist. “Be careful. And. . and when you take food to them, leave it. Don’t be. . don’t be tempted to. .”

He saw an instant of pity in her eyes, not for Hester, or for the sick, but for him, because she recognized his horror of disease. It chilled him like ice at the heart. Suddenly he saw that he could lose her not to death but to contempt, that awakening of disgust that is the end of love between a woman and a man, and becomes the pity that a strong woman has for the weak, for children, and for the defenseless, but never for a lover.

He looked away.

“I will do what I have to,” she said quietly. “I do not intend to go inside the clinic; I am more use to them out here. But if Hester sends for me, perhaps because she is dying, then I will go. I might lose my life too, but if I didn’t, I could lose everything that would make life precious. I am sure you know that.” There was no certainty in her voice or her face. She was full of question. She needed his answer.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, and he meant it with all the force of his nature. “I know you must. It was a moment’s complete selfishness because I love you.”

She smiled, and lowered her eyes as the tears slid down her cheeks. “You must go and defend this thief, if that is what Monk requires. Now I am going to raise some more money. We need vegetables, and tea, and beef, if possible.”

He took ten pounds out of his pocket and put it on the table. He was giving money away like water.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Now please go while I can still keep some measure of composure. We both have things to do.”

He obeyed, his emotions storming inside him, his own composure in shreds. He was glad to say good-bye and go as rapidly as he could outside into the anonymous street, where the sharp wind would sting his face and the rain would hide his tears.

ELEVEN

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