William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

for them.
    Rathbone knew precisely what she meant. “It is merely habit,” he assured her, equally softly. “I no longer notice.”
    She seemed about to respond, perhaps even to say that she knew he was lying to comfort her, but the footman had gone with them to the waiting hansom and was well within hearing.
    Once they were seated and moving it seemed ridiculous to pursue what had been only a politeness after all. He was aware of her sitting next to him. She wore very little perfume. He detected only what might have been the faintest breath of roses, or merely the warmth of her skin. It was one of the many things about her that pleased him.
    “How is Hester?” he enquired.
    “Working very hard,” she replied. “And concerned for the financial management of the clinic. Although we have just admitted a woman who seems to be suffering from pneumonia, and the man who brought her gave us an extremely generous donation, as well as paying for her keep.”
    Her voice was polite, concerned, and he could not see her face clearly in the flickering light of street lamps and other carriages as they passed. It was tactless of him to have asked after Hester so quickly, almost as if she were the one in his thoughts, and not Margaret.
    “Two weeks?” he said aloud. “That’s not very long.” He was anxious for her, and he was startled to realize that he was worried for the clinic as well. “I did not know it was so . . . so narrow a margin.”
    “People are more willing to give to other causes,” she explained. “I have tried most of those I know of, but Hester has a list from Lady Callandra, and we are going to try that.”
    “We?” he said quickly. “It would be far better if it were you alone. Hester is . . .”
    “I know.” She smiled with both amusement and affection. The smile lit her face till the gentleness in her seemed to be something so powerful he could almost have reached out and felt its warmth. “I was using the plural rather loosely,” she went on. “She has given me the names, and I shall approach them as I have the opportunity.”
    “Why does Lady Callandra not do so herself?”
    “You didn’t know?” She seemed surprised. “She is leaving England to live in Vienna. She is to marry Dr. Beck. I expect Hester will tell you as soon as she has the chance. She is delighted for her, of course, but it does mean that we do not have Lady Callandra to turn to anymore. She was superb at raising funds. We shall just have to do it ourselves from now on.” She looked away from him, forward and a little sideways, as if she had some interest in the passing traffic.
    Was she self-conscious because she had spoken of marriage? Had she been thinking of it? Was it really what occupied the minds of all young women? If he asked her to marry him, she would undoubtedly accept. He could not be unaware of her regard for him. And he was supremely eligible. Of course that did not mean that she loved him, only that time was on her heels and society expected it of her.
    “I am sure you will succeed,” he said. “I must write immediately and congratulate Callandra. I hope I am not too late. I daresay her household will know where to forward a letter to reach her.”
    “I imagine so,” she replied, keeping her face towards the window.
    Ten minutes later they alighted and were welcomed to the soiree. The large withdrawing room was already crowded with people: men in the traditional black and white, older women in rich colors like so many autumnal flowers, the younger ones in whites and creams and palest pinks. Jewels glittered in the gleam of chandeliers. Everywhere there was the hum of conversation, the occasional clink of glasses, and the trill of slightly forced laughter.
    Rathbone was aware of Margaret’s sudden tension, as if she faced some kind of ordeal. He wished he could have made it easier for her. It hurt him that she should have to protect herself from speculation, rather than receive the kind of respect he knew she deserved. She had courage and kindness far deeper than any of the achievements that passed for value there. And yet to say so would have been absurd. It would have been so very obviously a defense where no attack had been made.
    Lady Craven came forward to welcome them.
    “Delightful to see you, Sir Oliver,” she said charmingly. “I am so pleased you honored us with your company. We don’t see you nearly often enough. And Miss—Miss Ballinger, isn’t it? You are most welcome. I