William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

another ten minutes before he managed to introduce her to his guest, a Mr. Huntley, who was both a client and a social acquaintance. It was several moments further before Mr. Huntley could be directed to converse with someone else, and Margaret found herself alone with Rathbone.
    He regarded her gown, which was cut with ostentatious flattery. She saw in his face that he was uncertain whether he cared for it. It was uncharacteristic of her, and the change disconcerted him.
    “You look very well,” he observed, watching her eyes for the meaning behind whatever words she should use to respond.
    She longed to be able to tell him the thoughts and the fears that drove her, but she had promised Sutton not to. Rathbone of all people would care about Hester. It was a sort of lying not to tell him, but she was bound.
    “I am well,” she replied, meeting his gaze, but without inner honesty. She had to go on. It was not possible to tell how long they would have in which to talk. The music would begin again soon, Huntley might return, or any of a dozen other people could interrupt them. “But I am very exercised at trying to raise sufficient money for the clinic.”
    He frowned very slightly. “Does it really need so . . . so much of your time?” He said the word
time
, but she knew he was thinking of the change in her, the single-mindedness that absorbed her now so much that she wore clothes to please society and to be noticed. She was at a function she did not care for, and he knew she did not. The familiar in her was slipping away from him, and he was unhappy. She ached to be able to tell him why it mattered more than anything else, or anyone’s personal happiness.
    “Just at the moment, it does,” she answered.
    “Why? What is different from a few days ago?” he asked.
    How could she answer? She had expected the question, but she was still unprepared. Whatever she said, it could only be a lie. Even if she explained to him afterwards, would he understand, or would he feel that she ought to have trusted him? He had been part of everything to do with the clinic, even turning the tables on Squeaky Robinson in order to get the building. He was proud of the clinic and what it did. He had earned the right to be trusted. But she had promised the rat catcher, so in effect she had promised Hester.
    He was waiting, the unease in him growing.
    “We are just short of money,” she answered. “There are big bills and we have to pay.” It was an evasion. She saw in his face instantly that he knew it. She was not good at lying, and she had never done it before to him. Her candor was one of the qualities he loved in her most, and she knew it more sharply just as she felt him slip from her. He was hurt. Would she lose him over this?
    She turned away, her throat tight and tears prickling her eyes. This was ridiculous. There was no time for such personal self-pity.
    He started to say something, and then changed his mind also.
    She looked back at him, waiting.
    There was a sudden hush in the room.
    Huntley came back. “I say, Sir Oliver, they’re about to start again. Do you think we might excuse ourselves before it . . . Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss—er—I didn’t mean to . . .” He trailed off, not knowing how to extricate himself.
    She could at least help him. “Not at all,” she said. She wanted to smile at him, but her throat was too tight. “It’s a bit tedious, isn’t it? I really think the flute by itself has limited appeal.”
    His face flooded with relief. He was completely unaware of any other tension. “Thank you so much. You are most understanding.” He turned to Rathbone.
    Rathbone hesitated.
    “Please.” Margaret gestured towards the exit so obviously in Huntley’s thoughts. “I must return to my hostess or she will begin to realize my lack of enthusiasm.”
    Rathbone had no choice but to go with Huntley, leaving Margaret hurting as if she had been physically burned.
             
    Rathbone spent a miserable evening and went home as soon as he could excuse himself. Something had changed in Margaret and it disturbed him profoundly. He woke up several times during the night, puzzled and increasingly unhappy. Had he been mistaken in her all the time? Was she not the startlingly honest person he had thought her—more than that, he had felt he knew! Certainly the clinic would have bills, but suddenly so many, and so large?
    Even if that were true, it was not at the core of it. She was lying. He did not