William Monk 17 - Acceptable Loss

gown new? Surely I couldn’t have forgotten it?”
    The stiffness disappeared from her back and became the grace he had first seen in her when he had been drawn to her sense of humor, and the innate dignity that was her loveliest gift.
    Now he found his anxiety slipping away. They would negotiate the evening, whatever challenges it offered. It was a family occasion; the past and its unproved accusations should be left behind. To entertain them was unjust.
    “Come.” He offered her his arm. “The carriage will be at the door any moment.” He smiled at her and saw the answering pleasure in her eyes.
    T HEY ARRIVED JUST AFTER Margaret’s elder sister, Gwen, and her husband, Wilbert, and followed them into the long oak-paneledwithdrawing room. Wilbert was thin, fair-haired, and rather earnest. Rathbone had never discovered exactly what occupation he followed, but apparently he had inherited money and was interested in politics. Gwen was only a year or two older than Margaret, and not unlike her to look at. She had the same high, smooth brow and soft hair; her features were prettier, but lacked a little of Margaret’s individuality. Because of that, to him she was less attractive.
    The eldest sister, Celia, was already present, sitting on the couch opposite her husband, George. She was the handsomest of the three. She had beautiful dark hair and eyes, but Rathbone noticed that she was beginning to thicken a little in the waist and was already more buxom than he cared for. The diamonds at her ears must have cost as much as a good pair of carriage horses, if not more.
    Mrs. Ballinger let go the embrace of her middle daughter and came forward to welcome Margaret, the last of her daughters to achieve matrimony, but also the one who had done the best. Rathbone had not only money, but now a title, and he was very personable into the bargain.
    “How lovely to see you again, Oliver,” she said warmly. “I am so happy your commitments allowed you time for a little pleasure. Margaret, my dear, you look wonderful!” She kissed Margaret on both cheeks and offered her hand to Rathbone.
    A moment later Ballinger himself was shaking Rathbone’s hand with a firm grip. However, his eyes were guarded, offering no clues as to his inner thoughts. Had it always been like that, or was Rathbone noticing it now, because of Phillips’s death and Sullivan’s accusation?
    They had barely time to exchange greetings and make a few polite inquiries as to health and recent social engagements, when dinner was announced and they went into the enormous and lavish dining room with its hot Indian-red walls and glittering chandeliers, its over-spilling bowls of fruit on the sideboard. The table, which could have comfortably seated sixteen, was superbly set with the best crystal and silver, cut-glass bowls of bonbons, and snow-white linen napkins folded like swans. In the center, there was one of the loveliest arrangements of flowers that Rathbone could remember seeing—late roses in crimson and apricot, and tawny bronze chrysanthemumheads. It was given additional character by two spires of something deep, rich purple.
    “Mama-in-law,” he said spontaneously, “this is quite amazing. I have never seen a more exquisite table anywhere.”
    She blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Oliver. I believe even the best food is complemented by beauty to the eye.” She glanced at her husband to see if he had heard the compliment, and when she saw that he had, her satisfaction doubled.
    They took their places, and the first course was served—a delicate soup, quickly finished. It was followed by baked fish.
    Celia made some trivial remark about a display of drawings she had seen, and her mother replied. Ballinger looked around them all, smiling. Gradually the conversation embraced each one of them in turn. There was laughter and compliments. Rathbone began to feel included.
    Ballinger asked his opinion a number of times on various subjects. The fish was removed, and saddle of mutton was served with roasted and boiled vegetables, rich sauce, and garnishes. The men ate heartily, the women accepting less and eating a mouthful or two, and then resting before eating a little more. Conversation moved to more serious subjects: social issues and matters of reform.
    Ballinger made a joke with quick, dry wit, and they all laughed. Rathbone told an anecdote. They applauded it, Ballinger leading, looking at them all to join in, which they did, as if given