Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [17]
Orme nodded slowly. He looked quickly at Monk, then back again at the river.
“Have some breakfast first, and a little sleep. Get warm,” Monk added with a slight smile.
CHAPTER
3
OLIVER RATHBONE WAITED IN the withdrawing room for Margaret to come downstairs. They were going to dine with her parents, and as usual, it was a somewhat formal affair. Her two sisters and their husbands would also be present.
He walked to the windows and stared out at the darkening garden. The September sun was warm on the last of the flowers in the herbaceous border: purples and golds, autumn colors. It was the richest season; soon even the leaves would flame. Berries would ripen. Blue wood smoke and early morning frosts were not far away. For him the glory of autumn always held an echo of sadness, a knowledge that beauty is a living thing, delicate, capable of injury, even of death.
This would be the first time he would dine with Arthur Ballinger since the drownings at Execution Dock. Rathbone was dreading it, yet of course it was inevitable. Ballinger was his father-in-law, and Margaret was unusually close to her family.
Sullivan had made it hideously clear that he blamed the man behind the child-abuse racket for his downfall, from beginning to end, but he had offered no proof that it was Ballinger, so legally and morally there was nothing Rathbone could do about it. Sullivan’s words had been no more than those of a desperate man, disgraced beyond recall.
Outside, a flock of starlings swirled up into the evening sky, and clouds drifted in from the south.
For Margaret’s sake, Rathbone knew he must pretend. It would be difficult. He did not find family gatherings easy anyway. He was very close to his own father, but their dinners together had the quiet comfort of old friends, conversation about art and philosophy, law and literature, gentle amusement at the oddities of life and human nature. There were companionable silences while they ate bread and cheese, good pâté, drank a little red wine. Sometimes they had apple pie and cream by the fireside in the evening, and shared a joke or two.
The door opened and Margaret came in. She saw Rathbone standing and immediately apologized, assuming she had kept him waiting. She looked lovely in a gown of rich, soft green, the huge crinoline skirt bordered with a pattern of Greek keys in gold.
“I was early,” he replied, finding it easier to smile than he had expected. “But I would have been happy to wait. You look wonderful. Is the 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.
THEY ARRIVED JUST AFTER Margaret’s elder sister, Gwen, and her husband, Wilbert, and followed them into the long oak-paneled withdrawing 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