by Anne Perry
“Yes,” Rathbone agreed ruefully, many of his own past romances, or near romances, fleeting through his mind. He had been too busy, too ambitious, to allow the time necessary to enlarge them into courtship. This he could understand with no effort at all. But he had not been unmindful enough of others, or of the way of the world, to allow himself to be so misunderstood that anyone, even a socially avaricious would-be mother-in-law, had missed his intentions.
“Yes, the law is a hard taskmistress, Mr. Melville,” he agreed. “And one requiring both imagination and exactitude if one is to succeed. And it also requires an ability to judge character. I confess that I do not think you are telling me the whole truth of this matter.”
He saw Melville’s face tighten and the skin around his lips turn pale.
“Many men are not particularly in love with the women they marry,” he continued, “but find the alliance quite tolerable. Even more young women accept marriages which are based upon financial or dynastic necessity. If the person is honorable, kind, and not physically repellent, they very frequently learn to love one another. At times such a union is happier than one entered into in the heat of a passion which is based upon dreams and fades when the first hunger is assuaged, and there is no friendship left to feed it or to tide them over the later times.” As he said it he knew it was true, and yet he would not have entered such an arrangement himself.
Melville looked away. “I am aware of all that, Sir Oliver, and I do not deny it. I am not prepared to marry Zillah Lambert in order to satisfy her mother’s ambitions for her, or to try to be what she desires in a husband.” He rose to his feet rather awkwardly, as if he were too rigid to coordinate his limbs as he normally might. “And profoundly grateful as I am to Barton Lambert for his patronage of my art, my obligation does not extend to the ruin of my personal happiness or peace … of life.”
Rathbone drew in breath to ask him yet again what it was he was concealing, then saw in Melville’s face that he would not answer. Perhaps if the Lamberts did indeed sue him he would change his mind. Until then the matter was speculative anyway, and he felt increasingly that it was something in which he did not wish to become involved. Melville could not win. And frankly, Rathbone thought he was being melodramatic about something which was no more than the lot of a vast proportion of mankind, and not so very bad.
“Then perhaps you had better see what transpires, Mr. Melville,” he said aloud, “before presuming the worst. Perhaps if you were to explain the situation to Miss Lambert herself and give her the opportunity to break the engagement, for whatever reason you can agree upon that does her no dishonor, then such an ugly and expensive matter as a legal suit could be avoided. And your relationship with Mr. Lambert would suffer far less. I assume you have taken that into your considerations? If you break your promise to Miss Lambert, you can hardly expect his future patronage.”
“Of course I have taken it into consideration!” Melville said bitterly, standing now at the door. “I cannot win! It is only a question of how much I lose. But I am not prepared to marry in order to further my professional career.” He looked at Rathbone with contempt, as if he believed Rathbone would do such a thing himself, and yet beneath the anger and the disgust there was still the deep fear—and a flickering light of hope. “I am a very good architect, Sir Oliver,” he added softly. “Some have even said brilliant. I should not need to prostitute myself in order to obtain work.”
Rathbone was stung by the words. He realized with a flush of shame that he had half intended to insult Melville, without having the slightest idea of his professional ability or anything other of his personal situation than the one problem of which he had spoken. There were numerous personal reasons why a man might not wish to marry, many often too delicate to explain to others, whatever the pressure.
“I will help you if I can, Mr. Melville,” he said more gently. “But I fear that from what you have told me, there would be very little I could do. Let us agree to leave the matter until you have done your best to persuade Miss Lambert to break the engagement herself.” He sounded more encouraging than he meant to. He did not intend to take the case. He had already given his best advice in the matter.
“Thank you,” Melville said with his hand on the door, his voice flat. “Thank you for your time, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone put the subject from his mind and carried out his original intention of leaving his chambers in Vere Street early. It was still a lovely afternoon and he stopped the hansom cab and walked the last half mile with pleasure. He passed a couple of fashionable ladies of his acquaintance out taking the air, their crinolined skirts obliging him to step almost to the curb in order not to be in their way. He bowed to them, raising his hat, and they smiled charmingly and continued their excited conversation.
The slight breeze carried the sound of an organ grinder, and children shouting to one another, and the rapid clip of a horse’s hooves as it pulled a light carriage or gig.
He reached his home in plenty of time to eat supper, then sat and read the day’s newspapers before changing into his evening clothes and leaving for Lady Hardesty’s ball.
He arrived amid a crowd of other carriages and alighted, paid his driver, and went up the steps and into the blaze of lights and the swirl and glitter of enormous skirts, white shoulders, jewels of every sort, the sound of music and laughter and endless talk. Footmen moved about with trays of champagne, or lemonade for the more abstemious and the young ladies who should not overindulge, and perhaps behave in a less than seemly manner, or forget for an instant why they were there. A girl who did not make a fortunate impression in her first season was in perilous shape, and if she had not found a husband by her second, could be written off as a disaster.
Rathbone had been told these facts of life often enough, but he took them with a smile. It was an intellectual rather than emotional knowledge. Whether a man married or not was immaterial, except to himself. Society thought neither more nor less of him. All around him he heard snatches of conversation.
“What happened to Louisa?” an elderly lady in burgundy silk asked rhetorically, her eyebrows raised. “Why, my dear, she left the country. Went to live in Italy, I think. What else could she do?”
“What else?” her companion asked, her thin face expressing bewilderment, then a sudden rush of understanding. “Oh, my goodness! You don’t mean she divorced him, do you? Whatever for?”
“He beat her,” the lady in burgundy replied tersely, leaning her head a trifle closer. “I thought you knew that.”
“I did … but really … I mean … Italy, did you say?” Her eyes widened. “I suppose it was worth it … but a terribly bad example. I don’t know what the world is coming to!”
“Quite,” the first matron agreed. “I shan’t let my daughters know of it. It is very unsettling, and it doesn’t do to allow girls to be unsettled.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “One is far happier if one knows precisely what to expect of life. Rose Blaine just had her ninth, you know. Another boy. They are going to call him Albert, after the Prince.”
“Speaking of whom,” her friend continued, leaning even closer and moving her skirts absently, “Marian Harvey told me he is looking quite poorly these days, very pasty, you know, quite lost his good complexion, and his figure. Dyspeptic, they say.”
“Well, he is a foreigner, you know,” the thinner of the two said, nodding as if that explained everything. “He may be our dear Queen’s husband, but—oh, you know I do wish she would stay with pink, and not ever that fierce shade of fuchsia. She looks hot enough to burst into flames any moment! They say she never ever chooses a thing without taking his advice. Some men are color-blind, I hear. It’s that German blood.”
“Nonsense!” came the instant retort. “English men can be just as color-blind, if they choose.”
Rathbone concealed a smile and moved away. He was well acquainted with the insularity of mind which still regarded the Prince Consort, given that official title three years before, in 1
857, as being a foreigner, in spite of the fact that he was so deferred to by the Queen that he was king in all but name. He had a wide reputation for being painfully serious and more than a trifle pompous, not merely given to good works but completely overtaken by them to the point where pleasure of any sort was deeply suspect. Rathbone had met him once and found the experience daunting, and one he did not seek to repeat.
He passed a group of pretty girls, seventeen or eighteen years old, their fair skin gleaming in the light from the myriad candles in the chandeliers, their eyes bright, their voices high with nervousness, full of giggles and little squeaks. Their mothers or aunts were only yards away. One must never be without a chaperone. Reputations could be ruined.
A couple of young men were eyeing them from a distance of a few yards, standing self-consciously, pretending not to notice. One of them was so stiff his back was almost arched. They reminded Rathbone of bantam cocks.
He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see a man in his middle forties with a lean and humorous face.
“Rathbone, how are you?” he said cheerfully. “Didn’t expect to see you at this sort of thing!”
“Hello, FitzRobert!” Rathbone replied with pleasure. “I was invited, and I rather fancied a little idle amusement, a spot of champagne and music.”
FitzRobert’s smile broadened. “Just won a notable victory?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Rathbone admitted, reliving his satisfaction. “I have. How are you?” He regarded his friend more closely. “You look well.” It was not entirely true, but he felt tact was the better part of perception.
“Oh, I am,” FitzRobert said a shade too quickly. “Busy, you know. Politics is a demanding mistress.” He smiled briefly.
Rathbone struggled to remember the man’s wife’s name, and it came to him with a sudden picture of her face, very beautiful in a smooth, oddly discontented way. “And how is Mary?” he added.
“Very well, thank you.” FitzRobert put his hands in his pockets and looked away. His eye caught a group of people several yards in the distance. The man was stocky, balding, with a plain but genial face. His features were strong, and no skill of expensive tailoring could hide the awkwardness of his stance or the weight and power of his shoulders. The woman next to him, presumably his wife, was a head shorter than he, and extremely pretty, almost beautiful, with regular features, a long, straight nose, and wide eyes. The girl with them was demurely dressed in the customary white for a first season, only barely enhanced with trimmings of pink. The gown was doubtless extremely costly, but she did not need it to make her stand out among her peers. She was a little over average height, slender, and with quite the most beautiful hair Rathbone had ever seen. It was thick, of a muted golden bronze in color, and with a heavy curl which no art could have imitated.
“Are you acquainted with them?” Rathbone asked.
“Only slightly,” FitzRobert answered without changing expression. “He is in trade of some sort. Made himself a fortune. But of course that hardly endears him to society, although they will put up with him for his money’s sake. And he has had the grace to patronize the arts to the extent of tens of thousands of pounds.” He shrugged slightly. “Which, of course, does not make him a gentleman but at least lends him some respectability.” FitzRobert turned back to Rathbone, smiling because they both knew precisely what he meant: the subtle grades of acceptance which came so easily to those born to it and were nigh on impossible to those who were not.
Even Prince Albert was regarded with coolness by some, just as he disdained the frivolity, the wit, the self-indulgence and the sheer arrogant grace of some of the oldest aristocracy in the country, whose fortunes certainly equaled his own and whose wives had a better sense of fashion than the Queen—and jewels to match. Until very recently they had considered him a political upstart, and his endless notes and letters to be interfering.
Rathbone smiled back. He allowed FitzRobert to see in his eyes that he was going to pretend he had not noticed the shadow of unhappiness there, nor understood its deeply personal nature.
“Who is he?” he asked. “He does not look familiar to me.”
“Barton Lambert,” FitzRobert replied. “His daughter, Zillah, is engaged to marry Killian Melville, the architect. I don’t see him here tonight.” He looked around. “Devoted to his work. Not a very social man.”
Rathbone was suddenly uncertain whether he wanted to know more or not. When there were crimes and desperate injustices to fight, why on earth should he spend his time and his skills in defending a foolish young man from the consequences of his ambition and his lack of forthrightness towards a young woman who had taken him at his behavior, if not his word—as it turned out, mistakenly. It was not a matter which should waste the time of the law. It could be settled with a few well-chosen words and a little sensitivity, and strategic realignment.
“Brilliant fellow,” FitzRobert went on. “Probably one of the most original and daring thinkers of his generation. And has the technical skill and personal drive and persistence to see his ideas from the dreams into the reality.”
“With suitable help from Barton Lambert,” Rathbone added dryly.
FitzRobert was surprised. “Thought you didn’t know him!”
“Not a great deal.” Rathbone retreated with more speed than grace. “Only what I have heard. A word or two—you know how one does.”
FitzRobert smiled. “Well, I suppose he has been on people’s tongues lately. The engagement was in the Times.”
Rathbone spoke almost before thinking. “Perhaps you could introduce me?”
“Of course,” FitzRobert agreed. “Delighted to. For all his northern brashness, and a certain quickness to see insult where it is not intended, he is a very decent fellow. Honest as you like, and loyal. Once a friend, always a friend.”
“I don’t want to intrude.” Rathbone took a step backwards, already regretting his words. “Perhaps …”
“Not at all,” FitzRobert said with an expansive gesture. He took Rathbone by the arm. “Come on, by all means.”
Rathbone had little choice but to follow, and a few moments later he was being introduced to Barton Lambert and his wife and daughter.
“How do you do, sir,” Lambert said with a strong northern accent. His manner was open and friendly, but he seemed not to be too impressed by Rathbone’s title.
Delphine Lambert, on the other hand, had a very different air. Closer to her, it was apparent that her marvelous jewelry was real—and almost certainly worth more than Rathbone made in half a year, although he did extremely well. And she was a remarkably pretty woman. Her skin was blemishless and the arch of her brows and delicate curve of her hairline were quite unique, as was the slope of her cheekbones. Her intelligence was apparent in her wide, clear eyes.
“How do you do, Sir Oliver,” she said with charm, but marked reserve. Rathbone had an instant feeling that were her daughter not engaged to be married, her interest in him would have been quite different. He felt a surge of relief, which was ridiculous. He was perfectly capable of declining politely! He had done it for years.
Zillah was lovely. There was a naturalness and a spontaneity about her which Rathbone liked immediately. Also, she was unashamedly happy. The knowledge of how soon it would be shattered bothered Rathbone more than he had expected.
They spoke of the usual kind of trivia, and he could see her parents’ pride in her, the quick glances of obvious affection from her father. Her pain would be his pain; her embarrassment would cut him more deeply than his own. Rathbone doubted Barton Lambert would forgive a man who hurt his daughter, privately or publicly. It was not difficult to understand. He was not a foolish man, nor one without worldly wisdom, or he could not have made the wealth he had in a harsh and highly competitive trade. Manchester—that was the area where his accent proclaimed him to have lived—was not a soft city nor one easily to refine the rough edges from a man’s manner. But neither did it have the weary sophistication of London, the c
osmopolitan mixture of cultures and the press and vigor of the world’s traffic. There was a kind of innocence to Barton Lambert, and looking at his face, Rathbone was sure his anger would be of the same spontaneous and unstoppable character.
The conversation was about politics. FitzRobert had just said something about Mr. Gladstone.
“Fine man,” Lambert agreed. “Knew his family.” He nodded.
Of course. William Ewart Gladstone, “God’s vicar in the Treasury,” as he had been mockingly called, was a Manchester man. There was a ring of pride in Lambert’s voice.
“Couldn’t be less like the Prime Minister,” FitzRobert went on, referring, no doubt, to Lord Palmerston’s reputation for wit and good fellowship and the distinct enjoyment of life, its pleasures as well as its duties.
A thought crossed Rathbone’s mind about Mr. Gladstone’s fairly well known vigor regarding the opposite sex, and the occasionally understandable interpretation of his hospitality for the less fortunate of them, whose souls he believed he might save. However, in deference to the ladies present, especially Zillah, he forbore from making any remark. He caught FitzRobert’s eye and kept his face perfectly composed, but with difficulty.
