The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [38]
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