The Shifting Tide wm-14

by Anne Perry

  “Evenin’, miss,” he said as she closed the door behind her. “I got a message as I gotter tell yer, an’ it’s fer you an’ nob’dy else, no matter wot. I admit as I’d a told yer just wot I ’as ter, but Miss ’Ester said as I gotter tell yer the truth, an’ swear yer in Gawd’s name as yer’ll tell no one else.”

  Margaret felt a flicker of fear tighten in her throat. “What is it?” Now she remembered who he was: Sutton, the rat catcher. “What’s happened? Is Hester all right?”

  “In a manner o’ speakin’, yes she is,” he answered. “But in another manner, nobody in’t all right. I gotter tell yer, miss, an’ yer gotter tell no one else, or yer could kill ’em all.” His eyes were intent on hers, and there was a fear in him which now gripped her also, so hard she could scarcely draw in her breath.

  “What is it? I swear-I swear anything you like, just tell me!”

  “Ruth Clark died, miss, but it weren’t pneumonia like yer all thought. It were the plague.”

  “The plague?” Margaret said incredulously. “You mean like London in 1665, before the great fire?”

  “No, miss, I mean like in 1348, the Black Death wot killed near ’alf o’ the world.”

  She thought for a hysterical instant that he was making some stupid joke, then she saw the truth in his eyes and knew that he meant it. The room swam around her. Before she realized it the chair caught her awkwardly as she fell into it and gripped the arms to keep herself from fainting completely.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” Sutton apologized. “I only told yer ’cos I ’ave ter. Yer can’t go back there, an’ Miss ’Ester can’t come out.”

  She lifted up her head and the room steadied. “Don’t be absurd. I’ve got to go back in. I can’t leave Hester to cope with that on her own!”

  “There in’t no copin’, miss,” he said very quietly. “In’t much we can do ’ceptin’ see as they ’as food an’ water, coal, potash, an’ a spot o’ brandy. An’ that nob’dy else goes in nor guesses why. That’s about the biggest thing, ’cos if they does, sure as night an’ day, someone’ll stir ’em up ter go an’ mob the place an’ set a light ter it. Fire’s ’bout the only thing ter make sure o’ the plague, an’ they knows that. Was the great fire o’ London ’as killed the pneumonic in 1666, but yer can’t set fire ter the ’ole o’ England.”

  She stared at him, wanting to disbelieve, trying to-and failing.

  “Yer more use to ’er outside,” he said with sudden gentleness. “She’s gonna need all the ’elp out ’ere as she can find. An’ there in’t nob’dy but you. Mr. Monk’s got all ’is work cut out ter find where the plague come from in the first place.”

  “Louvain!” she said quickly. “Clement Louvain brought her in.”

  “Yeah, ’e knows. But ’e’s gotter do all ’e can ter find it an’ stop the others wot got it. I’m goin’ back in ter ’elp wi’ things inside.”

  “You aren’t a nurse!” she protested.

  His face tightened. “In’t much I can do fer that, but there’ll be bodies ter get out an’ find burial fer, wi’out nob’dy seein’ wot they died of. An’ we gotter keep ’em wot’s there from leavin’. .”

  “How can you do that if they insist? You can’t keep them at gunpoint!”

  “No, miss, men wi’ dogs is much better. Sleep wi’ one eye open; ’em dogs ’ear a footstep softer’n a snowflake landin’. Give ’em the word an’ they’ll tear yer ter bits. Rip yer throat out, ’em pit bulls will, if they ’ave ter.”

  “Who? What men?”

  “Friends o’ mine,” he said more gently. “They won’t ’urt nob’dy if they don’t ’ave ter. But we can’t let ’em out.”

  “I know. . I know. But if they say even. .”

  “They dunno it’s plague. They think it’s cholera.”

  She leaned forward and put her head in her hands. It was too big, too hideous. She had read about the great plague in school, but it had been something unreal, just a date to memorize, like 1066 and the Battle of Hastings, or 1815 and Waterloo. It had shaped her country, but it had no reality today.

  Now, suddenly, it had. She must have courage. She must be as brave as Hester was, and she must do it without leaning on anyone else, not even Rathbone. She lifted her head and looked at Sutton. “Of course. I shall start raising more money immediately-tonight. Tell Hester I shall do everything I can. Will you be back?”

  “No,” he said simply. “When yer get money, buy wot yer reckon we’ll need an’ bring it ter the back. Tell the men ’oo yer are, an’ they’ll take it ter the back door an’ leave it. If there’s any message left for yer, they’ll bring it back, so wait for ’em.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Mr. Sutton.” She stood up, surprised to find her head clear.

  There was admiration in his eyes. “Yer welcome, miss.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea before you leave? And something to eat?” she offered.

  “Yeah, but it in’t fittin’, an’ I in’t got time. But it was a right gracious thing ter ask. Good night, miss.” And he went to the door and out of it with a weary, silent tread, and a moment later he was gone.

  Margaret went back upstairs slowly, holding on to the banister to keep her balance and stopping on the landing as if she were out of breath. She was barely aware of her hands and feet, and the familiar space with its Chinese screen and jardiniere with flowers seemed blurred and far away. Plague! One word with so vast a meaning the whole world was changed. Was it really the right thing to stay outside as he had told her, or should she be there to do the real work, above all to support Hester so she did not face this horror alone?

  No. There was no time for personal need or indulgence. They were troops facing an enemy without feeling or discrimination, one that could kill every human being in Europe-or anywhere, for that matter. The wants or hungers, the pain of one individual could not matter. She must stay outside and raise money, take them supplies, keep them from being cut off from all help. And she should start now. It would be even harder than before because she must watch her tongue all the time. She could not even tell Rathbone the truth, and that silence would cost her dearly, but she knew why Sutton had asked it.

  She straightened her shoulders and went back to her own room. Her sister had invited her to go to a betrothal party this evening. The motive behind it was the same one as always; everybody’s mind would be on marriage, an odd, twisting irony that if Rathbone did not love her enough to propose to her, accepting her dedication to the clinic as well, then she would remain single and make her own way in the best manner she could. She would not give up other friendships or freedom of conscience in order to have social status or financial security.

  And she would swallow humble pie this evening and change her mind about the invitation. She went downstairs at a run to request her mother to send the footman, posthaste, with a message to beg Marielle to wait for her. She would be there as soon as she could dress appropriately and have the carriage convey her.

  Her mother was too delighted with victory to question it, and obliged with alacrity.

  Margaret had dressed with more flair and high fashion than she normally wished to; it was not really to her taste. This gown in warm pinks with a touch of plum was her mother’s choice, and it was more dramatic than she cared to be, but it would draw attention to her, and tonight that was what she needed. She acknowledged Marielle’s rather fulsome compliments as graciously as she could, and entered the party with her head high and her teeth gritted.

  She was immediately welcomed by her hostess, a large lady full of bustling goodwill. She had a charming smile and a gown up to the minute in fashion.

  “How delightful to see you, Miss Ballinger,” she said, after having welcomed Marielle and her husband. “It has been far too long.” Her wide eyes and the lift of curiosity in her voice made it a question. Some explanation of her absence was required.

  “Yes, it has,” Margaret agreed, forcing herself to smile. “I’m afraid I have been involved with work fo
r a charity which has consumed my interest so much I have lost track of time.”

  “Oh, good works are most admirable, I’m sure,” her hostess said quickly. “But you must not rob us of your company altogether. And of course your own welfare must also be considered.”

  Margaret knew exactly what she meant. It was a young woman’s duty to find a husband for herself, and not remain dependent upon her parents. “I am sure you are right,” she replied, trying to look sweet and agreeable, and finding it required more of an effort than she had anticipated. “And this is such a happy occasion, we shall all feel uplifted by it.”

  “Oh, yes!” And her hostess proceeded to sing the praises of her future son-in-law without wishing for any response except perhaps a little envy.

  As soon as she had exhibited all the wished-for signs, Margaret excused herself and, with Marielle, moved to the next compatible group of people. Marielle introduced her, with the greatest of ease allowing them to understand that she was unmarried.

  Margaret cringed inside. Knowing she needed Marielle’s help, she bore it with grace, but great difficulty. Once or twice it threatened to become unendurable as her mind was filled with a picture of Hester with her sleeves rolled up, her hair falling out of its pins. She could see her face exhausted with days and nights of snatched sleep, unable either to save the sick or to run away from the horror and the death, even had she wanted to. She was trapped, perhaps until she too succumbed to the most terrible of diseases. She might never leave that place, never see Monk again, or anyone whom she loved. What on earth was a little embarrassment to put up with?

  “I am sure we have not met before, Miss Ballinger,” a young man was saying to her. He had been introduced as the Honorable Barker Soames. He had floppy brown hair and a mildly superior air of good humor. His tone invited explanation as to why not. His friend Sir Robert Stark was paying only half attention; the rest was on a young lady with auburn hair who was pretending not to look at him while adjusting her fan.

  Margaret forced herself to pay attention. She wanted to dismiss him with a cool remark, but her purpose overrode everything else, and she bit her tongue. “We have not,” she replied with a charming smile. “I should have recalled it. I am always aware of those I have spoken to on serious matters, and I cannot imagine you are interested in trivia.”

  He was startled. It was certainly not the answer he had expected, and it took him several seconds to adjust his thoughts. “Why no, of course not. I. . I am concerned with all manner of. . of subjects of gravity.” Gravity was the greatest of virtues, and he was as aware of it as she. The very mention of it conjured up a picture of the late and still deeply mourned Prince Albert.

  “To be of worth, it is absolutely necessary, don’t you agree?” she pursued. Then, before he could answer and divert the course of the conversation to something easier, she hurried on. “I have been much involved in raising money to fund medicine for the poor and otherwise disadvantaged. We are so incredibly fortunate! We have homes, food, warmth, and we have the means to keep ourselves from falling into the spiral of despair.”

  He frowned, unprepared for the degree of gravity she was touching. He had intended theory; she was speaking of reality. It made him uncomfortable.

  She saw it in his shift of position, the way his weight moved backwards a little. She could not afford to be sensitive, either for him or for herself. She gazed very briefly around the room with its bright, chattering company, the plump arms of the women, the pink cheeks, and the freshly barbered faces of the men. Then for an instant she saw it in her mind as it would be if they failed; the wasted flesh, the fever, the despair, the sick no one dared go near to nurse, the dead no one buried. In weeks these people could be so many corpses, their laughter silent.

  She forced the image away.

  “I admire generosity enormously,” she went on. “Don’t you? I see it as a great part of Christian duty.” Now was no time to be squeamish about coercion. She added the final twist. “Of course, within the bounds of what we can afford! The last thing I should wish is for anyone to feel they have to give what is beyond their means. That would be quite cruel. Debt must be such a misery.”

  The Honorable Barker Soames looked urgently at his friend, hoping for rescue. However, his friend was now giving Margaret his full attention, and tasting a certain enjoyment in the situation.

  “For the sick, you say, Miss Ballinger? What particular charity would that be? One of the African ones, I daresay?” he asked.

  “No, it is one here at home,” Margaret answered, now far more careful. She was perfectly happy to bend the truth a little-the need was desperate-but she did not wish to be caught out. “For young women and children in the Farringdon Road area. It is a clinic that treats injuries, and at the moment is trying to give food and shelter to many struck down with pneumonia. It is most kind of you to care sufficiently to take an interest.” She put a warmth into her voice as if he had already offered a gift.

  Sir Robert smiled. “Where may we donate, Miss Ballinger? Would you be able to see that it reached the right people if we gave it to you?”

  “Thank you, Sir Robert,” she said with relief and a gratitude so deep it lit her face. For a moment she was truly beautiful. “I shall buy the food and coal myself, but of course I am more than happy to send you receipts, so you know what we have done.”

  “Then please accept five pounds,” he replied. “And I’m sure Soames can at least match that, can’t you?” He turned to Soames, who was looking distinctly cornered.

  Margaret did not care in the slightest. “That is very kind of you,” she said quickly. “It will do a great deal of good.”

  With intense reluctance Soames obeyed. In a wave of triumph Margaret moved on. The next encounter did not go as fortunately, but by the end of the evening she had elicited promises of a reasonably large sum.

  The following morning she took the money she had gained, went to the coal merchant, and bought an entire wagonload. She went with the delivery man to Portpool Lane, instructing him as he tipped it all down the chute from the street into the cellar.

  She stood in the sharp wind and stared at the walls of the house. It was damp and bitterly cold, and the air smelled of soot and the sour odor of drains, but it was not infected. She breathed it in with a sense of guilt. Hester was only a few yards away behind the blank bricks, but it could have been another world. She looked up at the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of anyone, but there was only blurred movement, no more than light and shadow.

  The wind stung her cheeks. She wanted to shout, just to let someone know how much she cared, but it would be worse than pointless; it could be dangerous. Slowly she turned away and walked back towards the coalman. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I’ll let you know when they need more.”

  Next she purchased oatmeal, salt, two jars of honey, a sack of potatoes, and several strings of onions, and carried them back to give them to one of the men standing discreetly under the eaves in the yard at Portpool Lane. She also went to the butcher and bought as many large bones as he had, and carried them back. Again she gave them to one of the men with the dogs, broad-chested, wide-jawed creatures with sturdy legs and unblinking eyes.

  In the evening she accepted, at ungraciously short notice, an invitation to a recital. She accompanied a young woman who was more of an acquaintance than a friend, along with her parents and brother. It was an awkward party, but she was only too aware that last night’s success might not be repeated for many days, and while ten pounds was a great deal of money, it had already been used.

  The music was not the kind she particularly cared for, and her mind was solely on gaining more support, possibly even recruiting someone else to help in the effort. She found herself in a series of brief and unsatisfactory conversations and was losing heart for the evening when during the second interval she saw Oliver Rathbone. He was standing at the edge of a group of people in earnest discussion, and apparently in the company of a gentleman of portly dimens
ions with fluffy gray hair, but he was looking at Margaret.

  She felt a surge of pleasure just seeing his face and knowing that he was as aware of her as she was of him. Suddenly the lights seemed brighter, the room warmer, and she looked away, smiling to herself, and quite deliberately setting about working her way closer to where he was.

  It was another ten minutes before he managed to introduce her to his guest, a Mr. Huntley, who was both a client and a social acquaintance. It was several moments further before Mr. Huntley could be directed to converse with someone else, and Margaret found herself alone with Rathbone.

  He regarded her gown, which was cut with ostentatious flattery. She saw in his face that he was uncertain whether he cared for it. It was uncharacteristic of her, and the change disconcerted him.

  “You look very well,” he observed, watching her eyes for the meaning behind whatever words she should use to respond.

  She longed to be able to tell him the thoughts and the fears that drove her, but she had promised Sutton not to. Rathbone of all people would care about Hester. It was a sort of lying not to tell him, but she was bound.

  “I am well,” she replied, meeting his gaze, but without inner honesty. She had to go on. It was not possible to tell how long they would have in which to talk. The music would begin again soon, Huntley might return, or any of a dozen other people could interrupt them. “But I am very exercised at trying to raise sufficient money for the clinic.”

  He frowned very slightly. “Does it really need so. . so much of your time?” He said the word time, but she knew he was thinking of the change in her, the single-mindedness that absorbed her now so much that she wore clothes to please society and to be noticed. She was at a function she did not care for, and he knew she did not. The familiar in her was slipping away from him, and he was unhappy. She ached to be able to tell him why it mattered more than anything else, or anyone’s personal happiness.