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?”
