William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

But we can’t let ’em out.”
    “I know . . . I know. But if they say even . . .”
    “They dunno it’s plague. They think it’s cholera.”
    She leaned forward and put her head in her hands. It was too big, too hideous. She had read about the great plague in school, but it had been something unreal, just a date to memorize, like 1066 and the Battle of Hastings, or 1815 and Waterloo. It had shaped her country, but it had no reality today.
    Now, suddenly, it had. She must have courage. She must be as brave as Hester was, and she must do it without leaning on anyone else, not even Rathbone. She lifted her head and looked at Sutton. “Of course. I shall start raising more money immediately—tonight. Tell Hester I shall do everything I can. Will you be back?”
    “No,” he said simply. “When yer get money, buy wot yer reckon we’ll need an’ bring it ter the back. Tell the men ’oo yer are, an’ they’ll take it ter the back door an’ leave it. If there’s any message left for yer, they’ll bring it back, so wait for ’em.”
    “I understand. Thank you, Mr. Sutton.” She stood up, surprised to find her head clear.
    There was admiration in his eyes. “Yer welcome, miss.”
    “Would you like a cup of tea before you leave? And something to eat?” she offered.
    “Yeah, but it in’t fittin’, an’ I in’t got time. But it was a right gracious thing ter ask. Good night, miss.” And he went to the door and out of it with a weary, silent tread, and a moment later he was gone.
    Margaret went back upstairs slowly, holding on to the banister to keep her balance and stopping on the landing as if she were out of breath. She was barely aware of her hands and feet, and the familiar space with its Chinese screen and jardiniere with flowers seemed blurred and far away.
Plague!
One word with so vast a meaning the whole world was changed. Was it really the right thing to stay outside as he had told her, or should she be there to do the real work, above all to support Hester so she did not face this horror alone?
    No. There was no time for personal need or indulgence. They were troops facing an enemy without feeling or discrimination, one that could kill every human being in Europe—or anywhere, for that matter. The wants or hungers, the pain of one individual could not matter. She must stay outside and raise money, take them supplies, keep them from being cut off from all help. And she should start now. It would be even harder than before because she must watch her tongue all the time. She could not even tell Rathbone the truth, and that silence would cost her dearly, but she knew why Sutton had asked it.
    She straightened her shoulders and went back to her own room. Her sister had invited her to go to a betrothal party this evening. The motive behind it was the same one as always; everybody’s mind would be on marriage, an odd, twisting irony that if Rathbone did not love her enough to propose to her, accepting her dedication to the clinic as well, then she would remain single and make her own way in the best manner she could. She would not give up other friendships or freedom of conscience in order to have social status or financial security.
    And she would swallow humble pie this evening and change her mind about the invitation. She went downstairs at a run to request her mother to send the footman, posthaste, with a message to beg Marielle to wait for her. She would be there as soon as she could dress appropriately and have the carriage convey her.
    Her mother was too delighted with victory to question it, and obliged with alacrity.
             
    Margaret had dressed with more flair and high fashion than she normally wished to; it was not really to her taste. This gown in warm pinks with a touch of plum was her mother’s choice, and it was more dramatic than she cared to be, but it would draw attention to her, and tonight that was what she needed. She acknowledged Marielle’s rather fulsome compliments as graciously as she could, and entered the party with her head high and her teeth gritted.
    She was immediately welcomed by her hostess, a large lady full of bustling goodwill. She had a charming smile and a gown up to the minute in fashion.
    “How delightful to see you, Miss Ballinger,” she said, after having welcomed Marielle and her husband. “It has been far too long.” Her wide eyes and the lift of curiosity in her voice made it a question. Some explanation of her absence was