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.
