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.
