The Silent Cry - Anne Perry [101]
It was the social life Hester had been accustomed to before she went to the Crimea, when she was at home in her father’s house and it was everyone’s very natural assumption that she would meet an eligible young man and marry, one hoped within a year or two at most. That had only been six years before, but it seemed like a lifetime. Now it was alien, and she had lost the skills.
“Good evening, Sir Oliver!” A large lady bore down on them enthusiastically. “How charming to see you again. I had quite feared we had lost the pleasure of your company. You do know my sister, Mrs. Maybury, don’t you!” It was a statement, not a question. “May I introduce you to her daughter, my niece, Miss Mariella Maybury?”
“How do you do, Miss Maybury.” Rathbone bowed to the young woman with practiced ease. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope you will enjoy the play. It is said to be most entertaining. Mrs. Trowbridge, may I introduce to you Miss Hester Latterly.” He offered no further explanation, but put his hand on Hester’s elbow as if making some affirmation that she was not a mere acquaintance but a friend towards whom he felt a sense of pride and even closeness.
“How do you do, Miss Latterly,” Mrs. Trowbridge said with ill-concealed surprise. Her rather thin eyebrows rose as if she were about to add something further, but whatever it was eluded her.
“How do you do, Mrs. Trowbridge,” Hester answered politely, a little trickle of warmth bubbling inside her. “Miss Maybury.”
Mrs. Trowbridge fixed Hester with a baleful eye. “Have you known Sir Oliver long, Miss Latterly?” she asked sweetly.
Hester was about to reply truthfully but Rathbone spoke first.
“We have been acquainted for several years,” he said with an air of satisfaction. “But I feel we are better friends now than ever before. Sometimes I think the best affections grow slowly, through shared beliefs and battles fought side by side … don’t you?”
Miss Maybury looked lost.
Mrs. Trowbridge caught her breath. “Indeed.” She nodded. “Especially family friendships. Are you a family friend, Miss Latterly?”
“I know Sir Oliver’s father, and I like him enormously,” Hester answered, again with the truth.
Mrs. Trowbridge murmured something inaudible.
Rathbone bowed and offered his arm to Hester, leading her away towards another group of people, most of them men in their middle years and obviously well-to-do. He introduced Hester to them one by one, each time without explanation.
By the time they had taken their seats and the curtain had risen on the first act, Hester’s mind was whirling. She had seen the speculation in their eyes. Rathbone knew precisely what he was doing.
Now she sat beside him in the box and could not help glancing away from the stage to watch what expression she could read in his face in the reflected lights. He seemed at ease—if anything, a trifle amused. A very slight smile touched his lips and the skin across his cheeks was perfectly smooth. Then she glanced down at his hands and saw they were constantly moving, only slightly, but as if he found himself unable to keep them still. He was nervous about something.
She turned back to the stage, her heart beating so she felt she could almost hear it. She watched the actors and heard all their words, but a moment later could not have recalled anything of it. She thought of the first time she had come to the theater with Rathbone. Then she had said far more, probably too much, expressing her opinions on the things she felt most passionate about. He had been courteous, he always would be, his own dignity would forbid anything else. But she had been aware of the coolness in him, always a certain distance, as if he wanted to be sure his friends did not assume too much about his regard for her, or that their relationship to each other was more than slight. His conventionality deplored her outspokenness, as if it admired her courage and fought in different ways for the same end.
But since then he had defended Zorah Rostova and nearly ruined his career. He had learned