The Shifting Tide

FOUR

Oliver Rathbone sat in the hansom as it moved with relative ease through the London traffic from his own home towards that of Margaret Ballinger. He was going to take her as his guest to an evening concert given by a very fine violinist. It was in aid of a worthy charity, and many people of social importance would attend. He was dressed in the height of elegance, fashionable enough to occasion admiration, and yet not so much as to look as if he cared. A real gentleman did not need to make an effort to please; it was a gift with which he was born.

And yet Rathbone was not at ease. He sat upright rather than relaxing into the padding of the seat. He had plenty of time, but he could not help looking out of the windows to see where he was, watching the yellow glitter of the street lamps reflected on the wet surfaces of the road through the drifts of rain, and note the familiar landmarks.

It had been a hurried invitation, offered to her yesterday somewhat impulsively. He could not remember exactly what the conversation had been, but certainly something to do with the clinic in Portpool Lane, as their conversation so often was. Were anyone else so single-minded it would almost certainly have been tedious, but he still found pleasure in seeing the animation in her face when she spoke of her work there. He even found himself involved with the welfare of certain of the patients she described, anxious for their recovery, upset at the injustices, happy for any success. Such a thing had never happened to him before. He governed his professional life with strict emotional discipline. He engaged his extraordinary skill in the service of those who needed it, by its nature those accused of some crime, but he kept his personal feelings well apart.

But then had anyone a few months ago outlined to him the plan by which Hester obtained the use of Squeaky Robinson’s establishment for the clinic he would have been horrified. Far from joining in, or in any way whatever assisting them, he would have struggled with his conscience as to whether he should actually report them to the police.

He blushed even now, sitting alone in the dark, islanded from the noise and bustle of anonymous traffic outside. He felt the heat well up in his face. No one else but Hester, Margaret, and Squeaky Robinson-and possibly Monk-knew what had taken place. But there had been a sublime kind of justice in it. He did not realize that he was smiling as he recalled Squeaky’s face, his horror at being so brilliantly and completely outmaneuvered. And it was Rathbone, not Hester, who had delivered the ultimatum to him and cornered him so he could not escape. Rathbone was profoundly embarrassed for having allowed himself to be involved in such dealings. He would be mortified if any of his professional colleagues were to know. Yet he was also obscurely proud of it-it had been exquisitely satisfying. That was the most remarkable thing, the incomprehensible thing. How he had changed! One would not have recognized him from the man he had been even a few months ago.

He was at the Ballinger house already, and the hansom was drawing up. He did not feel completely prepared. He had no conversation on his tongue for Mrs. Ballinger. She was a type of woman he had encountered numerous times before. After all, he was an eligible bachelor, and she had an unmarried daughter. Her ambition was so naked as to be beyond embarrassment. Not that there was any society matron in London whose ambition was any different, so attempting to conceal it or place it behind a mask of decency was really irrelevant. It would simply have spared Margaret.

As Rathbone stepped out of the carriage onto the glistening footpath, he felt the cold air on his face. He went up the steps and pulled the doorbell. A moment later the footman opened it and ushered him in and across the hall to the rich, dark withdrawing room, where Mrs. Ballinger was waiting for him.

“Good evening, Sir Oliver,” she said with more guarded enthusiasm than on their earlier encounters, since he had not yet met her expectations regarding her daughter, and he had had more than adequate opportunity. However, the brightness was still there in her eyes, the single-minded concentration. She was a woman who never forgot her purpose.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ballinger,” he replied with a slight smile. “How are you?”

“I am in excellent health, thank you,” she said. “I am most fortunate in that respect, and I thank God for it every day. I see friends and acquaintances around me who suffer from this and that.” She raised her eyebrows. “So wearing, I always think, don’t you? Headaches and shortness of breath, exhaustion, or even palpitations. Such a difficulty, don’t you find?”

He was about to say that he had never suffered such afflictions when he realized the double meaning in her words. She was not really referring to herself, or to concern for the hundreds of women who were so troubled. She was telling him, in her own way, that Margaret was from good stock, not only healthy by nature but not brought up to indulge herself in fancies and complaints.

He bit back the reply that came to his tongue. “Yes,” he agreed. “One should be most grateful for such excellent health. Unfortunately, it is not enjoyed by all. But I am happy for you.”

“How generous you always are,” she said without hesitation. “I find rudeness so unattractive, don’t you? It speaks of a selfishness of nature, I always think. Please sit down, Sir Oliver.” She gestured towards the chair nearest the fire with its embroidered armrests and antimacassars over the back to protect the upholstery from gentlemen’s hair oils. “Margaret will be a few minutes yet. You are delightfully punctual.” She suited her own actions to her words, spreading her wide silk-and-lace skirts around her.

It would have been impolite for him to decline. He sat opposite her and prepared to indulge in chatter until Margaret should appear. He was very used to guarding himself. He hardly ever spoke without thought. After all, his profession, at which he was one of the most gifted men of his generation, was to plead the cause of those accused of crime and against whom there was sufficient evidence for them to stand trial. No society matron was going to discomfit him, let alone outwit him.

“Margaret tells me it is a most charming event to which you have invited her this evening,” Mrs. Ballinger observed. “Music is so civilized and yet speaks to the romantic in us at the same moment.”

He found himself irritated and defensive already. “It is a function at which they hope to raise a considerable amount of funds for charitable work,” he replied.

She smiled, showing excellent teeth. “How I admire your giving of your time to such a cause. I know it is one of the qualities Margaret finds most worthy in a man. Many people who are successful in life forget those who are less fortunate. I am so pleased to see that you are not such a one.”

She had placed him in an impossible position. What on earth could he say to that? Any answer would sound ridiculous.

She nodded. “Margaret has such a noble heart. But I am sure you are already aware of that. Good works have brought you together so many times.” She made it sound as if he had somehow contrived to see Margaret at every opportunity. He had not! Indeed, he still saw quite a variety of other ladies-at least two of whom might be considered eligible for marriage, even if they were widows.

She was waiting for him to reply. His silence was beginning to look like disagreement.

“A noble heart-indeed she has,” he said with more fervor than he had intended. “And what is more unusual, she has the courage and the selflessness to pursue it, and create of it deeds that are far-reaching.”

A shadow flashed across Mrs. Ballinger’s face. “I am so pleased you mentioned it, Sir Oliver.” She leaned forward towards him. “Of course I am happy that Margaret devotes her time to worthy causes rather than frittering her hours away with mere entertainment, as so many young women do, but this latest cause of hers does alarm me more than a little. I am sure it is very noble to be concerned for the morally unfortunate, but I think she could place her care to better advantage in something a little more. . salubrious. Perhaps with your influence you could suggest to her other avenues that you may be aware of? I expect you know many ladies who. .”

Rathbone found himself suddenly furious. He knew exactly what she was doing. At one stroke she was manipulating him into spending more time with Margaret, not because he wished to but as a moral obligation to her mother, and also reminding him of social pressures and duty in general. It was unbelievably condescending to Margaret. He could feel the blood rising in his face and his body so stiff his hands were locked where they lay on his knee.

“I came to see Margaret because I enjoy her company, Mrs. Ballinger,” he said with as much control as he was able to muster. He saw her eyes gleam with satisfaction, and alarm rose up inside him as he realized what he had committed himself to, but he did not know how to stop. “I would not presume to influence her in her choice of causes. She feels intensely about the clinic, and I believe she would regard any interference from me as impertinent, and I should lose her friendship.” He did not know if that was true, but even the possibility struck him with extreme unpleasantness. It surprised him how very sharp it was.

“Oh, she would not be so foolish!” Mrs. Ballinger dismissed the idea with a light laugh. “Her regard for you is far too deep for her not to listen to you, Sir Oliver.” Her voice was warm, full of assurance, as if she too held him as dearly.

He wished that that were true. Or did he? Hester would have been furious with him if he had tried to dictate matters of conscience to her. She would not have 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 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 hope you will enjoy the music. Mr. Harding is highly talented.”

“So I have heard,” Rathbone replied. “I expect the evening to be a complete success. No doubt a great deal of money will be raised for good causes.”

Lady Craven was a little taken aback at his bluntness, but she was equal to any social occasion. “We hope so. We have been careful in our preparations. Every detail has been attended to with the greatest thought. Charity is surely next to Godliness, is it not?”

“I believe it is,” Rathbone agreed warmly. “And there are a great many sorely in need of your generosity.”

“Oh, I daresay! But it is Africa we have in mind. So noble, don’t you think? Brings out the very best in people.” And with that she sailed away, head high, a smile on her lips.

“Africa!” Margaret said between her teeth. “I wish them well with their hospitals, but they don’t have to have everything!”

They took seats in the very front row.

“Are you sure?” Rathbone said, thinking of less obvious seats farther back.

“Perfectly,” she replied, sitting down gracefully, and with one simple movement rearranging her skirts. “If I am here right in the middle it will be impossible for me to speak to anyone without being appallingly rude to the artist. I shall have to listen to him with uninterrupted concentration, which is exactly what I should like to do. Even if anyone should speak to me, I shall be completely unable to reply. I shall look embarrassed and regretful, and say nothing at all.”

Perhaps he should have hidden his smile-people were looking at him-but he did not. “Bravo,” he agreed. “I shall sit beside you, and I promise not to speak.”

It was a promise he was happy to keep because the music was indeed superb. The man was young, wild-haired and generally eccentric in appearance, but he played his instrument as if it were a living part of himself and held the voice of his dreams.

An hour later, when silence engulfed them, the moment before the eruption of applause, Rathbone turned to look at Margaret and saw the tears on her cheek. He lifted his hand to touch hers, then changed his mind. He wanted to keep the moment in memory rather than break it. He would not forget the wonder in her eyes, the amazement, or the emotion she was not ashamed to show. He realized that he had never heard her apologize for honesty or pretend to be unaffected by pity or anger. She felt no desire to conceal her beliefs or affect to be invulnerable. There was a purity in her that drew him like light in a darkening sky. He would have defended her at any cost, because he would not even have thought of himself, only of preserving what must never be lost.

The applause roared around them, and he joined in. There were murmurs of approval gaining in volume.

The artist bowed, thanked them, and withdrew. For him to play was the purpose and the completion. He did not need the praise and he certainly did not wish to become involved in chatter, however well-meaning.

Lady Craven took the artist’s place and made her plea for generous donations to the cause of medicine and Christianity in Africa, and in turn was greeted with polite applause.

Rathbone felt Margaret stir beside him and was sure he knew what she was thinking.

People began to move. Of course no one would do anything so vulgarly overt as put their hands in their pockets and pull out money, but promises were being made, bankers would be notified, and footmen would be sent on urgent errands tomorrow morning. Money would change hands. Letters of credit would make their way to accounts in London or Africa, or both.

Margaret was very quiet. She barely joined in the conversation that continued around them.

“Such a worthy cause,” Mrs. Thwaite said happily, patting the diamonds around her throat. She was a plump, pretty woman who must have been charming in her youth. “We are so fortunate I always think we should give generously, don’t you?”

Her husband agreed, although he did not appear to be listening to what she said. He looked so bored his eyes were glazed.

“Quite,” a large lady in green said sententiously. “It is no more than one’s duty.”

“I always feel that in the future our grandchildren will consider our greatest achievement was to bring Christianity, and cleanliness, to the Dark Continent,” another gentleman said with conviction.

“If we could do that, it would be,” Rathbone agreed. “As long as we do not do it at the cost of losing it ourselves.” He should have bitten his tongue. It was exactly the sort of thing Hester would have said.

There was a moment’s appalled silence.

“I beg your pardon?” The woman in green raised her eyebrows so high her forehead all but disappeared.

“Perhaps you would care for another drink, Mr. . ” The bored husband suddenly came to life. “Then again perhaps not,” he added judiciously.

“Rathbone,” Rathbone supplied. “Sir Oliver. I am delighted to meet you, but I cannot have another drink until I have had a first one. I think champagne would be excellent. And one for Miss Ballinger also, if you would be so kind as to attract the footman’s attention. Thank you. I mention losing that sublime charity because we also have a great many good causes at home which need our support. Regrettably, disease is not confined to Africa.”

“Disease?” The bored husband directed the footman to Rathbone, who took a glass of champagne for Margaret, then one for himself. “What kind of disease?” he pursued.

“Pneumonia,” Margaret supplied, taking the opening Rathbone had given her. “And, of course, tuberculosis, rickets, occasionally cholera or typhoid, and a dreadful amount of bronchitis.”

Rathbone let out his breath. He did not realize he had been holding it in fear she would mention syphilis.

The bored husband looked startled. “But we have hospitals here, my dear Miss. .”

“Ballinger,” Margaret said with a smile Rathbone knew was forced. “Unfortunately there are not enough of them, and too many of the poor have not the financial means to afford them.”

The pretty wife looked disturbed. “I thought there were charitable places provided. Is that not so, Walter?”

“Of course it is, my dear. But her tender heart does Miss. . credit, I’m sure,” Walter said hastily.

Margaret was not going to be silenced. “I work for a clinic in Portpool Lane, specifically for poor women in the area, and we are continually seeking funds. Even the smallest donation would be sufficient for food or a little coal. Medicines can cost more, but vinegar and lye are cheaper.”

Walter seized on the one thing he had not understood and felt he could take issue with. “Surely vinegar is unnecessary, Miss Ballinger? Can you not feed them simpler food? If they are ill, what of gruel, or something of that nature?”

“We do not eat vinegar,” Margaret replied, forcing herself to speak softly. “It is to keep things clean. We do use a lot of gruel, and porridge when people are a little stronger, or for those who are injured rather than ill.”

Walter was plainly disconcerted. “Injured?”

“Yes. Women are quite often involved in accidents, or they are victims of attack. We do for them what we can.”

His expression filled with distaste. “Really? How. . very unpleasant. I imagine it must be difficult for you. I prefer to make my donations to those who are spreading the light of Christianity to those poor souls who have not already had the opportunity-and spurned it! One must not waste precious resources.” He inclined his head as if he were about to leave.

Margaret stiffened.

Rathbone put his hand on her arm, tightening his fingers a little, warning her not to respond.

“I know,” she said under her breath. Then as soon as Walter had retreated to another group where he would not be disturbed by unpleasant thoughts, she added, “I would love to tell him what I believe, but it would ruin all future chances of help. Don’t worry, I shall bite my tongue.” But there was no smile on her face, and she did not turn to look at him.

Her next attempt fared little better. They were engaged in polite but trivial conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Taverner, Lady Hordern, and the Honorable John Wills.

“Such a wonderful man,” Lady Hordern said enthusiastically, referring to one of the doctors in Africa. “Prepared to give his life to saving people he does not even know, body and soul. Truly Christian.”

“Most doctors save people they do not know,” Rathbone pointed out.

Lady Hordern looked a little bewildered.

“All that is necessary is to know that many people are ill and in trouble,” Margaret said with a smile.

“Quite!” Wills agreed, as if she had made his point for him.

Rathbone hid a smile. “I think what Miss Ballinger means is that we should also give generously to other causes as well.”

Lady Hordern blinked. “Whose cause?”

“I was thinking of those who work in such places as the clinic run by my friend, Mrs. Monk, who treats our own Londoners,” Margaret responded.

“But we have hospitals,” Mr. Taverner pointed out. “And we are Christian already. It is very different, you know.”

Margaret bit her lip. “There is something of a difference between having heard of Christ and being a Christian.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” He was patently unconvinced.

She scented an opportunity. “Surely one soul is as valuable as another? And to save those in our own community will have excellent effects all around us.”

“Save?” his wife asked suspiciously. “From what, Miss Ballinger?”

Rathbone felt Margaret’s arm tense and heard her indrawn breath. Was she going to make a tactical error?

“From behavior unworthy of a Christian,” Margaret replied sweetly.

Rathbone let out his breath in a sigh of relief.

Lady Hordern’s pale eyebrows rose very high. “Are you referring to that place which caters to women of the street?” she asked incredulously. “I can hardly imagine that you are asking for money to support. . prostitutes?”

Mr. Taverner turned a dull shade of red, but whether his emotion was fury or embarrassment it was impossible to say.

“I believe that for the most part they support themselves, Lady Hordern,” Rathbone interposed, hearing Hester’s voice in his head exactly as if she had prompted him. “Which is the heart of the trouble, I imagine. The clinic you are referring to is to help street women who are injured or ill, and therefore cannot obtain their usual employment.”

“Which is devoutly to be wished!” Mrs. Taverner snapped.

“Is it?” Rathbone asked innocently. “I do not admire it as a trade, nor the fact that so many men patronize it, or it could not exist, but neither do I think that attempting to do away with it would be a practical solution. And as long as there are such people, it becomes us to treat their illnesses as effectively as we may.”

“I find your opinions extraordinary, Sir Oliver,” Mrs. Taverner responded icily. “Most particularly that you should choose to express them in front of Miss Ballinger, who after all is unmarried, and I assume you regard her as a lady?”

To his amazement Rathbone was not furious, he was suddenly and intensely proud. “Miss Ballinger works in the clinic,” he said clearly. “She is perhaps more aware of the nature of these women’s lives than any of us.”

Mrs. Taverner looked profoundly shocked and insulted.

“The difference. .” Rathbone concluded, startled at the passion in his voice. “The difference is that she chooses to do something to help, and we have yet to avail ourselves of that opportunity.” He felt Margaret’s hand close tightly on his arm and was ridiculously elated.

“I choose to give such gifts as I do to a worthier cause,” Lady Hordern said stiffly.

“Are the Africans worthier?” Rathbone enquired.

“They are more innocent!” she snapped back. “I presume you would not argue that?”

“Since I am unacquainted with them, I cannot,” he responded.

Wills tore his handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, his shoulders shaking. He was obviously laughing uncontrollably.

Lady Hordern looked very steadily at Margaret. “I can only assume, Miss Ballinger, that your poor mother is unaware of your present interests, both personal”-she glanced at Rathbone and back again to Margaret-“and occupational. I think in the service of your future, it would be the act of a friend to inform her. I should not like to see you suffer more than is already unavoidable. I shall call upon her tomorrow morning.” And with that she swept off, the stiff taffeta of her skirts rattling.

Mr. Taverner was still scarlet in the face. Mrs. Taverner wished them good evening and turned away, leaving her husband to follow.

“You are worse than Hester!” Margaret said between her teeth, but now it was not laughter she was stifling; it was fear. If her mother forbade her, it would be very difficult to continue seeing Rathbone, and perhaps impossible to work in the clinic. She had no independent means, not even a home apart from that of her parents.

He looked at her and saw the sudden change in her. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I have indulged my anger at your expense and made it impossible for you, haven’t I.” It was an acknowledgment of fact, not a question.

“It was impossible before that,” she admitted, refusing ever to think of the meaning far deeper than the loss of tonight’s contribution. “I have a strong feeling that Mr. Taverner may already make his contribution to their keep and Mrs. Taverner is quite aware of it.”

“I daresay it is her acceptance of it that she resents the most,” he agreed. Then he hesitated. “Margaret, will your mother listen to Lady Hordern and believe her? Do I need to make myself a great deal more respectable in her eyes in order to be permitted to see you again? Should I”-he swallowed-“apologize?”

“Don’t you dare!” She lifted her chin a little higher. “I shall speak to Mama myself.”

It was exactly the sort of thing Hester would have said-brave, angry, and unwise, but so intensely from the heart. Did Margaret feel that in some way she was standing in for Hester in his regard, that she was here as a substitute and not as herself? It was untrue. He knew it with overwhelming conviction. He loved the courage and the honesty in Margaret that were like Hester’s, but there were also other qualities of gentleness and honor, modesty and inner sweetness that had nothing to do with anyone else at all. One did not love people because they reminded one of somebody else!

She looked away again, her eyes bright. “I am afraid we have not been very successful at inspiring donations, have we?”

“I have been a liability so far,” he confessed. “I shall endeavor to do better.” He offered her his arm and she took it. Together they walked towards a large group of people, ready to try again.