The Shifting Tide - Anne Perry [39]
“It is through her that I am aware of the work,” he added defensively. “And, of course, Margaret has also told me, from time to time. I have the deepest admiration for them.” That was true, and he met her eyes as he said it. His mind was filled with memories of Hester. She would risk herself to struggle against injustice with a passion he had seen in no one else. He had loved her, and yet hesitated to propose marriage. Could he really face such a willful companion in his life, a woman with unreasoning, unturnable conviction, such fierce hunger of the soul?
Mrs. Ballinger was staring at him, confused by his words, and yet also satisfied. She felt the emotion in him, even if she did not understand it, and she interpreted it as she wished.
There was a slight sound behind him as the door opened and Margaret came in. He rose to his feet and turned to face her.
She was dressed in a deep plum pink, a color in which he had never seen her before. It flattered her wonderfully, giving her skin a glow and making her eyes look bluer. He had never thought of her as lovely until now, but quite suddenly he realized that she was. It gave him extraordinary pleasure to see her, more than he had imagined it could. There was a gentleness in her, a dignity in the way she stood waiting for him, confident and yet not eager. She would not allow her mother’s ambition either to embarrass him or to move her to defend herself and retreat. There was a pool of calmness inside her which made her nothing like Hester, and it was that serenity which he loved. It was unique to her.
“Good evening, Miss Ballinger,” he said with a smile. “It would seem redundant to ask if you are well.”
She smiled back at him. “Good evening, Sir Oliver. Yes, I am indeed well. And ready to face the arbiters of both musical and charitable taste.”
“So am I,” he agreed. He inclined his head to Mrs. Ballinger and she rose to escort them out, proprietorially, beaming with an imminent sense of victory.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret murmured as they crossed the hall.
The footman assisted her with her cloak, then opened the front door for them.
Rathbone knew precisely what she meant. “It is merely habit,” he assured her, equally softly. “I no longer notice.”
She seemed about to respond, perhaps even to say that she knew he was lying to comfort her, but the footman had gone with them to the waiting hansom and was well within hearing.
Once they were seated and moving it seemed ridiculous to pursue what had been only a politeness after all. He was aware of her sitting next to him. She wore very little perfume. He detected only what might have been the faintest breath of roses, or merely the warmth of her skin. It was one of the many things about her that pleased him.
“How is Hester?” he enquired.
“Working very hard,” she replied. “And concerned for the financial management of the clinic. Although we have just admitted a woman who seems to be suffering from pneumonia, and the man who brought her gave us an extremely generous donation, as well as paying for her keep.”
Her voice was polite, concerned, and he could not see her face clearly in the flickering light of street lamps and other carriages as they passed. It was tactless of him to have asked after Hester so quickly, almost as if she were the one in his thoughts, and not Margaret.
“Two weeks?” he said aloud. “That’s not very long.” He was anxious for her, and he was startled to realize that he was worried for the clinic as well. “I did not know it was so . . . so narrow a margin.”
“People are more willing to give to other causes,” she explained. “I have tried most of those I know of, but Hester has a list from Lady Callandra, and we are going to try that.”
“We?” he said quickly. “It would be far better if it were you alone. Hester is . . .”
“I know.” She smiled with both amusement and affection. The smile lit her face till the gentleness in her seemed to be something so