William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

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.
    Sir Robert smiled. “Where may we donate, Miss Ballinger? Would you be able to see that it reached the right people if we gave it to you?”
    “Thank you, Sir Robert,” she said with relief and a gratitude so deep it lit her face. For a moment she was truly beautiful. “I shall buy the food and coal myself, but of course I am more than happy to send you receipts, so you know what we have done.”
    “Then please accept five pounds,” he replied. “And I’m sure Soames can at least match that, can’t you?” He turned to Soames, who was looking distinctly cornered.
    Margaret did not care in the slightest. “That is very kind of you,” she said quickly. “It will do a great deal of good.”
    With intense reluctance Soames obeyed. In a wave of triumph Margaret moved on. The next encounter did not go as fortunately, but by the end of the evening she had elicited promises of a reasonably large sum.
    The following morning she took the money she had gained, went to the coal merchant, and bought an entire wagonload. She went with the delivery man to Portpool Lane, instructing him as he tipped it all down the chute from the street into the cellar.
    She stood in the sharp wind and stared at the walls of the house. It was damp and bitterly cold, and the air smelled of soot and the sour odor of drains, but it was not infected. She breathed it in with a sense of guilt. Hester was only a few yards away behind the blank bricks, but it could have been another world. She looked up at the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone, but there was only blurred movement, no more than light and shadow.
    The wind stung her cheeks. She wanted to shout, just to let someone know how much she cared, but it would be worse than pointless; it could be dangerous. Slowly she turned away and walked back towards the coalman. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I’ll let you know when they need more.”
    Next she purchased oatmeal, salt, two jars of honey, a sack of potatoes, and several strings of onions, and carried them back to give them to one of the men standing discreetly under the eaves in the yard at Portpool Lane. She also went to the butcher and bought as many large bones as he had, and carried them back. Again she gave them to one of the men with the dogs, broad-chested, wide-jawed creatures with sturdy legs and unblinking eyes.
    In the evening she accepted, at ungraciously short notice, an invitation to a recital. She accompanied a young woman who was more of an acquaintance than a friend, along with her parents and brother. It was an awkward party, but she was only too aware that last night’s success might not be repeated for many days, and while ten pounds was a great deal of money, it had already been used.
    The music was not the kind she particularly cared for, and her mind was solely on gaining more support, possibly even recruiting someone else to help in the effort. She found herself in a series of brief and unsatisfactory conversations and was losing heart for the evening when during the second interval she saw Oliver Rathbone. He was standing at the edge of a group of people in earnest discussion, and apparently in the company of a gentleman of portly dimensions with fluffy gray hair, but he was looking at Margaret.
    She felt a surge of pleasure just seeing his face and knowing that he was as aware of her as she was of him. Suddenly the lights seemed brighter, the room warmer, and she looked away, smiling to herself, and quite deliberately setting about working her way closer to where he was.
    It was