by Anne Perry
They were joined a moment later by another handsome woman, accompanied by two unmarried daughters. They were all dutifully introduced, and Rathbone saw the lady’s eyes sparkle with interest as she automatically assessed his eligibility, his social status and his probable income. Apparently she found them all satisfactory. She smiled at him generously.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir Oliver. May I present my elder daughter, Margaret.”
“How do you do, Sir Oliver,” Margaret replied obediently. She was a comely enough girl with candid blue eyes and rather ordinary features. Her brown hair had been elaborately curled for the occasion. It probably became her better in its natural state, but an opportunity such as this was not to be wasted by informality. No artifice for glamour was left untried.
“How do you do, Miss Ballinger,” Rathbone said civilly. He hated these forced conversations and wished more than ever that he had refused to come across with FitzRobert. Nothing he could possibly learn about Barton Lambert or his daughter would compensate for the awkwardness of it. In fact, it would be of no use whatever, because he did not intend to take Killian Melville’s case, should it arise. It was Melville’s own fault he was in this predicament, and he should use his common sense to get himself out of it, or else abide the consequences, which were more than likely to be only the same as those experienced by the majority of men in the world. Zillah Lambert was most attractive and would come with a handsome dowry. Left to his own choice he might well do very much worse.
“And my younger daughter, Julia,” Mrs. Ballinger was saying to him.
“How do you do, Miss Julia.” Rathbone inclined his head towards her. She was no prettier than her sister and had the same frank, almost amused stare.
“Did you attend the concert at Lady Thorpe’s house yesterday evening?” Mrs. Ballinger was asking Mrs. Lambert. “We went for Margaret’s sake. She is so fond of music, and of course is a most accomplished violinist, if I do say so myself.” She turned to Rathbone with a bright smile. “Are you fond of music, Sir Oliver?”
Rathbone wanted to lie and say he was tone-deaf. He saw the eagerness in Mrs. Ballinger’s face and the embarrassment in Margaret’s. She must feel as if she were bloodstock being paraded in front of a prospective buyer. It was not far from the truth.
Mrs. Lambert smiled with inner satisfaction. She had already won and no longer needed to compete. The triumph of it was luminous in her eyes. Zillah herself looked serenely happy.
Rathbone felt like part of a group picnicking in the sun, and he was the only one aware of the clouds thickening over the horizon, and growing chill in the air.
Mrs. Ballinger was waiting for a reply.
Rathbone looked at Margaret, and his compassion overcame his sense and he answered with the truth.
“Yes, I am very fond of music, particularly the violin.”
Mrs. Ballinger’s answer was immediate.
“Then perhaps you would care to visit with us some occasion and hear Margaret play. We are holding a soirée next Thursday.”
Margaret bit her lip and the color mounted up her face. She turned away from Rathbone, and he was quite certain she would have looked daggers at her mother had she dared. He wondered how many times before she had endured this scene, or ones like it.
He had walked straight into the trap. He was almost as angry as Margaret at the blatancy of it. And yet neither of them could do anything without making it worse.
Delphine Lambert was watching with an air of gentle amusement, her delicate mouth not quite smiling.
It was Julia Ballinger who broke the minute’s silence.
“I daresay Sir Oliver does not have his diary to hand, Mama. I am sure he will send us a card to say whether he is able to accept, if we allow him our address.”
Margaret shot her a look of gratitude.
Rathbone smiled. “You are perfectly correct, Miss Julia. I am afraid I am not certain of my engagements a week ahead. My memory is not as exact as I should like, and I should be mortified to find I had offended someone by failing to attend an invitation I had already accepted. Or indeed that a case kept me overlong where I had foreseen it might …”
“Of course,” Margaret said hastily.
But Mrs. Ballinger did not give up so easily. She produced a card from her reticule and passed it to him. It noted her name and address. “You are always welcome, Sir Oliver, even if you are not able to confirm beforehand. We are not so very formal as to admit only those we expect when an evening of social pleasure is to be enjoyed.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ballinger.” He took the card and slipped it into his pocket. He was sufficiently annoyed with her insensitivity that he might even go, for Margaret’s sake. Looking at her now, standing stiffly with her shoulders squared, horribly uncomfortable, and knowing this ritual would be observed until she was either successfully married or past marriageable age, she reminded him faintly of Hester Latterly, whom he had come to know in some ways so well in the last few years. There was a similar courage and vulnerability in her, an awareness of precisely what was going on, a contempt for it, and yet a knowledge that she was inevitably caught up in it and trapped.
Of course, Hester was not any longer similarly caught. She had broken free and gone to the Crimea to nurse with Florence Nightingale, and returned changed forever. It was her personal loss that both her parents had died in the tragedy which indirectly had brought about her meeting with William Monk, and thus with Rathbone. It had also spared her the otherwise inevitable round of parties, balls, soirées, and attendances at any conceivable kind of social occasion until her mother had found her an acceptable husband. Acceptable to her family, of course, not necessarily to her.
But Hester must be about thirty now, and too old for most men to find her appealing—of which fact she could not be unaware. Standing in this glittering room with the music in the background and the press and hum of scores of people, the clink of glasses, the faint smells of warmth, champagne, stiff material and sometimes of flowers and perfume, he could not help wondering if it hurt her. And yet only a few months ago he had been so close to asking her to marry him. He had even led into an appropriate conversation. He could remember it now with a sudden wave of disappointment. He was certain she had known what he was going to say, and she had gently, very indirectly, allowed him to understand that she was not ready to give him an answer.
Had that been because she loved Monk?
He did not wish to believe that; in fact, he refused to. It would be like ripping the plaster off a wound to see if it was really as deep as one feared. He knew it would be.
And he would go and listen to Margaret Ballinger play her violin. Damn Mrs. Ballinger for insulting her so!
The conversation was going on around him, something to do with a house they had all seen recently, or a public building of some nature.
“I am afraid I do not care for it,” Delphine Lambert said with feeling. “Most unimaginative. I am disappointed they chose such old-fashioned ideas. There was nothing new in it at all.”
“Restricted budget, I daresay,” her husband offered.
She gave him an odd look. “Mr. Melville could have designed something far better, I am sure. Don’t you think so, my dear?” She looked at Zillah.
“He is quite brilliant,” Zillah agreed, unable to hide her enthusiasm. “He is so sensitive. He is able to create beauty where one would never have imagined it possible and to draw designs so it can be built. You cannot imagine how exciting it is to see drawings on a page and then to see them come to life. Oh!” She blushed. “I mean—to reality, of course. But such grace and inventiveness almost seem as if they have a life, an existence of their own.” She looked from one to another of them. “Do you know what I mean?”
“Of course we do, my dear,” Lambert assured her. “Only natural for you to be proud of him.”
Delphine smiled at Rathbone. “Perhaps you did not know, Sir Oliver, but Zillah is engaged to marry Mr. Melville. It is quite charm
ing to see two young people so devoted to one another; they cannot but be happy. He really is a most talented man, and yet not in the least immodest or overbearing. His success has never gone to his head, nor has he lost his sense of gratitude to Mr. Lambert for his patronage. You believed in him from the very beginning, didn’t you, my dear?” It was a rhetorical question. She did not wait for an answer but turned again to Mrs. Ballinger. “Mr. Lambert was always good at seeing a man’s character. Makes a judgment from the first meeting, and never wrong that I know of.”
“How fortunate,” Mrs. Ballinger said dryly, “we have not the opportunity of having to exercise such a gift. So much in society is already known of a person.” She did not add the implicated aside that the Lamberts were not part of society, but it hung in the air unsaid.
Mrs. Lambert merely smiled. She could afford to. Society or not, she had successfully accomplished her principal role in life. She was not only married to a wealthy man herself, she had engaged her only daughter to a man of good looks, good manners, brilliant talent, and excellent financial prospects. What more was there to do?
The orchestra had begun to play a waltz. Rathbone turned to Margaret Ballinger.
“Miss Ballinger, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
She accepted with a smile and he excused himself and offered her his arm to lead her to the floor. She took it lightly—he could barely feel her hand—and followed him without meeting his eyes.
They had been dancing for several minutes before she spoke, and then it was hesitant.
“I am sorry Mama is so … forward. I hope she did not embarrass you, Sir Oliver.”
“Not at all,” he said honestly. It was she who had been embarrassed. He had been merely angry. “She is only behaving as all mothers do.” He wanted to think of something else to add which would make her feel easier, but he could imagine nothing. This would go on, and they both knew it. It was a ritual. Some young women found a certain excitement in it or had a self-confidence which bore them along. Some were not sufficiently sensitive or imaginative to suffer the humiliation or to perceive the young man’s awkwardness or knowledge of being manipulated, almost hunted, and the burden of expectation upon him.
He must find a conversation to hold with Margaret. She was dancing with her head turned away, self-conscious, almost as if she feared he had invited her only to save her embarrassment. It was half true. He wished to make it wholly a lie. She seemed so very vulnerable.
“Do you know this architect, Killian Melville?” he asked.
“I have met him three or four times,” she answered, a slight lift of surprise in her voice, and she looked up towards him. “Are you interested in architecture, Sir Oliver?”
“Not especially,” he said with a smile. “I suppose I tend to be most aware of it when it offends me. I am rather used to agreeable surroundings. Perhaps I take them for granted. What is his work like? A less biased opinion than Miss Lambert’s, if you have one….”
She laughed. “Oh, yes indeed. I did like him. He was so easy to talk to. Not in the least … brash or—oh, dear, I don’t know how to pursue it without sounding …” She stopped again.
“Now you have me fascinated,” he admitted. “Please tell me. Speak frankly, and I promise not to take offense—or to repeat it.”
She regarded him uncertainly, then relaxed, and her eyes lost the anxiety they had held until that moment. He realized that without the artificial necessity to be charming, biddable, pretty and accommodating, she was almost certainly an intelligent and most likable person.
“Yes?” he prompted.
She laughed. “I found Mr. Melville one of the most comfortable people I ever encountered,” she said, swirling gracefully in his arms as they negotiated a complicated corner, her huge, pale skirts flying. “He never seemed to misunderstand or to need to prove himself and—and parade … as so many young men do … I—” She bit her lip. “I hope that does not sound too unkind?”
“Not at all,” he assured her. “Merely very candid. I know precisely what you mean. I have observed it, and I daresay if I were to glance around now I should see a score of examples. I was doubtless guilty of it myself … a few years ago.”
She wanted to laugh. He could see it in her eyes, but good manners, and the slightness of their acquaintance, forbade it.
“Perhaps I still do….” He said it before she could complete the thought.
“Oh no,” she denied. “I’m sure not now. You don’t need to, and you must know that.”
“The advantage of age.” He laughed at himself.
Suddenly the vulnerability was back in her eyes, and he knew she was afraid he had referred to the difference in their ages to distance himself from her, to let her know gently that this was merely a courtesy acquaintance and could be nothing more. That was true, but because of his feelings for Hester, not anything to do with Margaret Ballinger. Were it not for Hester, he might well have sought to know Margaret a good deal better.
He was chilled by the realization of how easy it was to hurt, without the slightest intention, simply because one was thinking of something else, watching some other imperative.
“Well, perhaps it is more the assurance one gains from some professional success,” he amended, then wished he had not. He was only making it worse. “Tell me more about Mr. Melville’s architectural designs. Is he really innovative?”
“Yes, quite definitely,” she replied without hesitation. “His designs seem to have far more light than most people’s. They are full of windows and curves where I have never seen them before. There is a house in Hampshire he built, or should I say Mr. Lambert had built, which is wonderful inside. Every room seems to be full of sunlight, and the windows are quite irregular. It is extraordinarily comfortable to be in. One always seems to be looking outside either at trees or at the sky. I felt so at peace in it. And yet when I asked the housekeeper if it was difficult to care for, she assured me it was actually highly practical. I was most surprised.”
So was Rathbone. He had not judged Melville to have such courage.
“I think perhaps he is a genius,” Margaret said very quietly. He only heard her because the music had stopped. They swung to a standstill. He offered his arm again, and she took it.
“Would you care for a glass of champagne?” he asked. “Or lemonade?”
“Lemonade, if you please,” she accepted.
He fetched it for her and they spent a little further time in conversation, now not in the least difficult. Then he returned her to where Mrs. Ballinger was standing alone looking remarkably pleased with herself.
“I can see how much you have enjoyed your dance,” she said with a smile. “You are excellently matched.” She turned to her daughter. “Mr. Edwin Trelawny has been asking for you, my dear. He remembered you from your meeting in Bath. I think we should return Lady Trelawny’s call … perhaps this week.”
It was a ploy to make sure Rathbone did not think Margaret too available. No one wished to pursue a young lady if he was alone in the chase. If he were, then she could not be worth a great deal.
“Yes, Mama,” Margaret said dutifully, cringing at the obviousness of it.
Mrs. Ballinger was undeterred. In order to marry off daughters one had to develop an exceedingly thick protective armor against disapproval or other people’s embarrassment. She ignored Margaret’s pleading look.
“Does your family live in London, Sir Oliver? I don’t believe I am acquainted with your mother.”
Margaret closed her eyes, refusing to look at Rathbone.
Rathbone smiled with quite genuine amusement. He was now being judged as to whether he was socially fully acceptable.
“My mother died some years ago, Mrs. Ballinger,” he answered. “My father lives in Primrose Hill, but he mixes very little in society. In fact, I suppose it would be more honest to say he does not mix at all.” He looked at her directly. “Of course, he is quite well acquainted with most of the scientific and mathematical community
because of his work … before he retired. And he always had a high regard for Lord Palmerston.”
He knew instantly he should not have mentioned the Prime Minister. She was immensely impressed.
“How very agreeable,” she answered, momentarily at a loss for words. She recovered rapidly. “I hope I shall have the good fortune to meet him someday. He sounds quite delightful.”
Margaret looked as if she wanted to groan.
“I am afraid my opinion is hopelessly biased,” Rathbone said, excusing himself with a smile. He was actually extremely fond of his father. He liked him quite as much as anyone he knew. “Now I must not monopolize your time, Mrs. Ballinger. Miss Ballinger, I have greatly enjoyed your company, and I hope we shall meet again. Good evening.”
They replied appropriately and he turned and walked away, perhaps a little more rapidly than usual. In spite of his intellectual knowledge of what was happening, and why, and his wry amusement at it all, he still felt pursued, and only his certainty of escape kept the panic from welling up inside him.
He must not seem to be fleeing. It would hurt Margaret and be inexcusably rude. He should dance with at least three or four other young ladies, and perhaps one or two older ones, before he could decently leave.
An hour later he was preparing to excuse himself to Lady Hardesty and thank her for a delightful evening, when he found himself standing next to Zillah Lambert, who had just been left by a companion who had gone to seek refreshment for her. She looked flushed and happy, her skin glowing, her eyes bright.
“Good evening again, Miss Lambert,” he said politely. She really was a very charming girl.
“Good evening, Sir Oliver. Isn’t it a lovely ball?” She looked around at the sea of lace and tulle and silk, the blaze of lights, the laughter and the music and the sway and swirl of movement. “I wish everyone could be as happy as I am.”
He felt acutely awkward. He knew that almost all of her joy rested in her engagement to Melville, and she obviously had not even the slightest idea that his feeling was utterly different. What to her was a prospect of excitement and unshadowed delight was to him a prison closing in, so unbearable he would risk social ruin—and very probably financial and professional ruin also—rather than endure it.
