William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

allowed even Monk to do that. In fact, he could very clearly remember occasions when Monk had been unwise enough to try!
    “I have too much respect for Margaret to attempt to influence her against her beliefs, Mrs. Ballinger,” he replied.
    Mrs. Ballinger looked both alarmed and excited, as if she had gone fishing and caught a whale she had no idea how to land, nor, on the other hand, how to let go. She started to say something, then changed her mind and sat on the edge of her seat, her lips a little parted.
    “Added to which,” Rathbone went on, unable to endure the silence, “her clinic is run by one of my dearest friends, and I would not dream of attempting to rob her of her most loyal supporter. It has been the calling of great women down the centuries to care for those less fortunate and to do it with compassion and without judgment. No doctor has demanded first whether his patient is worthy of healing, only whether he needs it. The same is true of those who nurse.”
    “My goodness!” she said in amazement. “I had no idea you were so deeply involved, Sir Oliver! It must be a far more noble endeavor than I had appreciated. You work very closely with it, then? Margaret did not make me aware of that.” She was quite breathless at the thought.
    Rathbone silently swore to himself. Why on earth was he being so clumsy? In court he could see a pitfall yards off and evade it with such elegance it exasperated his adversaries. And he had outwitted matchmaking women like Margaret’s mother for twenty years or more, admittedly not always with quite such grace, although his skill had increased with time.
    “I don’t work with it at all,” he denied firmly. “But I have occasionally been of assistance with advice because of my long friendship with Mrs. Monk.” As soon as the words were out he was ashamed of them. It was cowardly. He had been the prime mover in obtaining the premises for them, even if it was Hester who had put the words into his mouth. And it had been for Margaret’s sake that he had abandoned all his life’s careful rules to do it. And if he were truly, scrupulously honest, he would also admit that for a few wild moments he had thoroughly enjoyed it. He had often heard it said that a really good barrister must have something of the actor in him. Perhaps that was truer than he had appreciated.
    “It is through her that I am aware of the work,” he added defensively. “And, of course, Margaret has also told me, from time to time. I have the deepest admiration for them.” That was true, and he met her eyes as he said it. His mind was filled with memories of Hester. She would risk herself to struggle against injustice with a passion he had seen in no one else. He had loved her, and yet hesitated to propose marriage. Could he really face such a willful companion in his life, a woman with unreasoning, unturnable conviction, such fierce hunger of the soul?
    Mrs. Ballinger was staring at him, confused by his words, and yet also satisfied. She felt the emotion in him, even if she did not understand it, and she interpreted it as she wished.
    There was a slight sound behind him as the door opened and Margaret came in. He rose to his feet and turned to face her.
    She was dressed in a deep plum pink, a color in which he had never seen her before. It flattered her wonderfully, giving her skin a glow and making her eyes look bluer. He had never thought of her as lovely until now, but quite suddenly he realized that she was. It gave him extraordinary pleasure to see her, more than he had imagined it could. There was a gentleness in her, a dignity in the way she stood waiting for him, confident and yet not eager. She would not allow her mother’s ambition either to embarrass him or to move her to defend herself and retreat. There was a pool of calmness inside her which made her nothing like Hester, and it was that serenity which he loved. It was unique to her.
    “Good evening, Miss Ballinger,” he said with a smile. “It would seem redundant to ask if you are well.”
    She smiled back at him. “Good evening, Sir Oliver. Yes, I am indeed well. And ready to face the arbiters of both musical and charitable taste.”
    “So am I,” he agreed. He inclined his head to Mrs. Ballinger and she rose to escort them out, proprietorially, beaming with an imminent sense of victory.
    “I’m sorry,” Margaret murmured as they crossed the hall.
    The footman assisted her with her cloak, then opened the front door