The Shifting Tide

by Anne Perry

  “I imagine so,” she replied, keeping her face towards the window.

  Ten minutes later they alighted and were welcomed to the soiree. The large withdrawing room was already crowded with people: men in the traditional black and white, older women in rich colors like so many autumnal flowers, the younger ones in whites and creams and palest pinks. Jewels glittered in the gleam of chandeliers. Everywhere there was the hum of conversation, the occasional clink of glasses, and the trill of slightly forced laughter.

  Rathbone was aware of Margaret’s sudden tension, as if she faced some kind of ordeal. He wished he could have made it easier for her. It hurt him that she should have to protect herself from speculation, rather than receive the kind of respect he knew she deserved. She had courage and kindness far deeper than any of the achievements that passed for value there. And yet to say so would have been absurd. It would have been so very obviously a defense where no attack had been made.

  Lady Craven came forward to welcome them.

  “Delightful to see you, Sir Oliver,” she said charmingly. “I am so pleased you honored us with your company. We don’t see you nearly often enough. And Miss—Miss Ballinger, isn’t it? You are most welcome. I hope you will enjoy the music. Mr. Harding is highly talented.”

  “So I have heard,” Rathbone replied. “I expect the evening to be a complete success. No doubt a great deal of money will be raised for good causes.”

  Lady Craven was a little taken aback at his bluntness, but she was equal to any social occasion. “We hope so. We have been careful in our preparations. Every detail has been attended to with the greatest thought. Charity is surely next to Godliness, is it not?”

  “I believe it is,” Rathbone agreed warmly. “And there are a great many sorely in need of your generosity.”

  “Oh, I daresay! But it is Africa we have in mind. So noble, don’t you think? Brings out the very best in people.” And with that she sailed away, head high, a smile on her lips.

  “Africa!” Margaret said between her teeth. “I wish them well with their hospitals, but they don’t have to have everything!”

  They took seats in the very front row.

  “Are you sure?” Rathbone said, thinking of less obvious seats farther back.

  “Perfectly,” she replied, sitting down gracefully, and with one simple movement rearranging her skirts. “If I am here right in the middle it will be impossible for me to speak to anyone without being appallingly rude to the artist. I shall have to listen to him with uninterrupted concentration, which is exactly what I should like to do. Even if anyone should speak to me, I shall be completely unable to reply. I shall look embarrassed and regretful, and say nothing at all.”

  Perhaps he should have hidden his smile—people were looking at him—but he did not. “Bravo,” he agreed. “I shall sit beside you, and I promise not to speak.”

  It was a promise he was happy to keep because the music was indeed superb. The man was young, wild-haired and generally eccentric in appearance, but he played his instrument as if it were a living part of himself and held the voice of his dreams.

  An hour later, when silence engulfed them, the moment before the eruption of applause, Rathbone turned to look at Margaret and saw the tears on her cheek. He lifted his hand to touch hers, then changed his mind. He wanted to keep the moment in memory rather than break it. He would not forget the wonder in her eyes, the amazement, or the emotion she was not ashamed to show. He realized that he had never heard her apologize for honesty or pretend to be unaffected by pity or anger. She felt no desire to conceal her beliefs or affect to be invulnerable. There was a purity in her that drew him like light in a darkening sky. He would have defended her at any cost, because he would not even have thought of himself, only of preserving what must never be lost.

  The applause roared around them, and he joined in. There were murmurs of approval gaining in volume.

  The artist bowed, thanked them, and withdrew. For him to play was the purpose and the completion. He did not need the praise and he certainly did not wish to become involved in chatter, however well-meaning.

  Lady Craven took the artist’s place and made her plea for generous donations to the cause of medicine and Christianity in Africa, and in turn was greeted with polite applause.

  Rathbone felt Margaret stir beside him and was sure he knew what she was thinking.

  People began to move. Of course no one would do anything so vulgarly overt as put their hands in their pockets and pull out money, but promises were being made, bankers would be notified, and footmen would be sent on urgent errands tomorrow morning. Money would change hands. Letters of credit would make their way to accounts in London or Africa, or both.

  Margaret was very quiet. She barely joined in the conversation that continued around them.

  “Such a worthy cause,” Mrs. Thwaite said happily, patting the diamonds around her throat. She was a plump, pretty woman who must have been charming in her youth. “We are so fortunate I always think we should give generously, don’t you?”

  Her husband agreed, although he did not appear to be listening to what she said. He looked so bored his eyes were glazed.

  “Quite,” a large lady in green said sententiously. “It is no more than one’s duty.”

  “I always feel that in the future our grandchildren will consider our greatest achievement was to bring Christianity, and cleanliness, to the Dark Continent,” another gentleman said with conviction.

  “If we could do that, it would be,” Rathbone agreed. “As long as we do not do it at the cost of losing it ourselves.” He should have bitten his tongue. It was exactly the sort of thing Hester would have said.

  There was a moment’s appalled silence.

  “I beg your pardon?” The woman in green raised her eyebrows so high her forehead all but disappeared.

  “Perhaps you would care for another drink, Mr. . . .” The bored husband suddenly came to life. “Then again perhaps not,” he added judiciously.

  “Rathbone,” Rathbone supplied. “Sir Oliver. I am delighted to meet you, but I cannot have another drink until I have had a first one. I think champagne would be excellent. And one for Miss Ballinger also, if you would be so kind as to attract the footman’s attention. Thank you. I mention losing that sublime charity because we also have a great many good causes at home which need our support. Regrettably, disease is not confined to Africa.”

  “Disease?” The bored husband directed the footman to Rathbone, who took a glass of champagne for Margaret, then one for himself. “What kind of disease?” he pursued.

  “Pneumonia,” Margaret supplied, taking the opening Rathbone had given her. “And, of course, tuberculosis, rickets, occasionally cholera or typhoid, and a dreadful amount of bronchitis.”

  Rathbone let out his breath. He did not realize he had been holding it in fear she would mention syphilis.

  The bored husband looked startled. “But we have hospitals here, my dear Miss . . .”

  “Ballinger,” Margaret said with a smile Rathbone knew was forced. “Unfortunately there are not enough of them, and too many of the poor have not the financial means to afford them.”

  The pretty wife looked disturbed. “I thought there were charitable places provided. Is that not so, Walter?”

  “Of course it is, my dear. But her tender heart does Miss . . . credit, I’m sure,” Walter said hastily.

  Margaret was not going to be silenced. “I work for a clinic in Portpool Lane, specifically for poor women in the area, and we are continually seeking funds. Even the smallest donation would be sufficient for food or a little coal. Medicines can cost more, but vinegar and lye are cheaper.”

  Walter seized on the one thing he had not understood and felt he could take issue with. “Surely vinegar is unnecessary, Miss Ballinger? Can you not feed them simpler food? If they are ill, what of gruel, or something of that nature?”

  “We do not eat vinegar,” Margaret replied, forcing herself to speak softly. “It is to k
eep things clean. We do use a lot of gruel, and porridge when people are a little stronger, or for those who are injured rather than ill.”

  Walter was plainly disconcerted. “Injured?”

  “Yes. Women are quite often involved in accidents, or they are victims of attack. We do for them what we can.”

  His expression filled with distaste. “Really? How . . . very unpleasant. I imagine it must be difficult for you. I prefer to make my donations to those who are spreading the light of Christianity to those poor souls who have not already had the opportunity—and spurned it! One must not waste precious resources.” He inclined his head as if he were about to leave.

  Margaret stiffened.

  Rathbone put his hand on her arm, tightening his fingers a little, warning her not to respond.

  “I know,” she said under her breath. Then as soon as Walter had retreated to another group where he would not be disturbed by unpleasant thoughts, she added, “I would love to tell him what I believe, but it would ruin all future chances of help. Don’t worry, I shall bite my tongue.” But there was no smile on her face, and she did not turn to look at him.

  Her next attempt fared little better. They were engaged in polite but trivial conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Taverner, Lady Hordern, and the Honorable John Wills.

  “Such a wonderful man,” Lady Hordern said enthusiastically, referring to one of the doctors in Africa. “Prepared to give his life to saving people he does not even know, body and soul. Truly Christian.”

  “Most doctors save people they do not know,” Rathbone pointed out.

  Lady Hordern looked a little bewildered.

  “All that is necessary is to know that many people are ill and in trouble,” Margaret said with a smile.

  “Quite!” Wills agreed, as if she had made his point for him.

  Rathbone hid a smile. “I think what Miss Ballinger means is that we should also give generously to other causes as well.”

  Lady Hordern blinked. “Whose cause?”

  “I was thinking of those who work in such places as the clinic run by my friend, Mrs. Monk, who treats our own Londoners,” Margaret responded.

  “But we have hospitals,” Mr. Taverner pointed out. “And we are Christian already. It is very different, you know.”

  Margaret bit her lip. “There is something of a difference between having heard of Christ and being a Christian.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He was patently unconvinced.

  She scented an opportunity. “Surely one soul is as valuable as another? And to save those in our own community will have excellent effects all around us.”

  “Save?” his wife asked suspiciously. “From what, Miss Ballinger?”

  Rathbone felt Margaret’s arm tense and heard her indrawn breath. Was she going to make a tactical error?

  “From behavior unworthy of a Christian,” Margaret replied sweetly.

  Rathbone let out his breath in a sigh of relief.

  Lady Hordern’s pale eyebrows rose very high. “Are you referring to that place which caters to women of the street?” she asked incredulously. “I can hardly imagine that you are asking for money to support . . . prostitutes?”

  Mr. Taverner turned a dull shade of red, but whether his emotion was fury or embarrassment it was impossible to say.

  “I believe that for the most part they support themselves, Lady Hordern,” Rathbone interposed, hearing Hester’s voice in his head exactly as if she had prompted him. “Which is the heart of the trouble, I imagine. The clinic you are referring to is to help street women who are injured or ill, and therefore cannot obtain their usual employment.”

  “Which is devoutly to be wished!” Mrs. Taverner snapped.

  “Is it?” Rathbone asked innocently. “I do not admire it as a trade, nor the fact that so many men patronize it, or it could not exist, but neither do I think that attempting to do away with it would be a practical solution. And as long as there are such people, it becomes us to treat their illnesses as effectively as we may.”

  “I find your opinions extraordinary, Sir Oliver,” Mrs. Taverner responded icily. “Most particularly that you should choose to express them in front of Miss Ballinger, who after all is unmarried, and I assume you regard her as a lady?”

  To his amazement Rathbone was not furious, he was suddenly and intensely proud. “Miss Ballinger works in the clinic,” he said clearly. “She is perhaps more aware of the nature of these women’s lives than any of us.”

  Mrs. Taverner looked profoundly shocked and insulted.

  “The difference . . .” Rathbone concluded, startled at the passion in his voice. “The difference is that she chooses to do something to help, and we have yet to avail ourselves of that opportunity.” He felt Margaret’s hand close tightly on his arm and was ridiculously elated.

  “I choose to give such gifts as I do to a worthier cause,” Lady Hordern said stiffly.

  “Are the Africans worthier?” Rathbone enquired.

  “They are more innocent!” she snapped back. “I presume you would not argue that?”

  “Since I am unacquainted with them, I cannot,” he responded.

  Wills tore his handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, his shoulders shaking. He was obviously laughing uncontrollably.

  Lady Hordern looked very steadily at Margaret. “I can only assume, Miss Ballinger, that your poor mother is unaware of your present interests, both personal”—she glanced at Rathbone and back again to Margaret—“and occupational. I think in the service of your future, it would be the act of a friend to inform her. I should not like to see you suffer more than is already unavoidable. I shall call upon her tomorrow morning.” And with that she swept off, the stiff taffeta of her skirts rattling.

  Mr. Taverner was still scarlet in the face. Mrs. Taverner wished them good evening and turned away, leaving her husband to follow.

  “You are worse than Hester!” Margaret said between her teeth, but now it was not laughter she was stifling; it was fear. If her mother forbade her, it would be very difficult to continue seeing Rathbone, and perhaps impossible to work in the clinic. She had no independent means, not even a home apart from that of her parents.

  He looked at her and saw the sudden change in her. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I have indulged my anger at your expense and made it impossible for you, haven’t I.” It was an acknowledgment of fact, not a question.

  “It was impossible before that,” she admitted, refusing ever to think of the meaning far deeper than the loss of tonight’s contribution. “I have a strong feeling that Mr. Taverner may already make his contribution to their keep and Mrs. Taverner is quite aware of it.”

  “I daresay it is her acceptance of it that she resents the most,” he agreed. Then he hesitated. “Margaret, will your mother listen to Lady Hordern and believe her? Do I need to make myself a great deal more respectable in her eyes in order to be permitted to see you again? Should I”—he swallowed—“apologize?”

  “Don’t you dare!” She lifted her chin a little higher. “I shall speak to Mama myself.”

  It was exactly the sort of thing Hester would have said—brave, angry, and unwise, but so intensely from the heart. Did Margaret feel that in some way she was standing in for Hester in his regard, that she was here as a substitute and not as herself? It was untrue. He knew it with overwhelming conviction. He loved the courage and the honesty in Margaret that were like Hester’s, but there were also other qualities of gentleness and honor, modesty and inner sweetness that had nothing to do with anyone else at all. One did not love people because they reminded one of somebody else!

  She looked away again, her eyes bright. “I am afraid we have not been very successful at inspiring donations, have we?”

  “I have been a liability so far,” he confessed. “I shall endeavor to do better.” He offered her his arm and she took it. Together they walked towards a large group of people, ready to try again.

  FIVE

  Hester arrived
at Portpool Lane by half past eight on the third morning after Monk accepted the job for Clement Louvain. The first thing she did was sit down with Bessie in the kitchen and have a hot cup of tea and a slice of toast while she listened to the report of what had happened during the night.

  In its time as a brothel very little cooking had been done there. Most of the prostitutes who inhabited the place had eaten what meals they had somewhere in the street, before their working hours began. There had seldom been more than three or four people to cater for at any one time: just Squeaky Robertson himself and a few women kept on and off for cleaning and laundry; and a couple of men to deal with any customer who got rough and needed throwing out, or who was a trifle slow in settling his bill. It had never been necessary to enlarge what was essentially a family kitchen. The laundry was another matter; that was enormous, and excellent, with two boiling coppers for the vast numbers of sheets used, and a separate room for drying them.

  Bessie looked profoundly tired. Her hair was scraped back so tightly it looked painful, but large strands were looped over her ears carelessly, as if she had pushed them back in irritation, simply to get them out of her way. Her skin was pale, and every now and then she could not stifle a yawn.

  “Been up all night?” Hester said, more as a statement than a question.

  Bessie took a third mouthful of her tea with a sigh of satisfaction. “Them two from a couple o’ nights ago are gettin’ better,” she replied. “One poor little cow only needed a spot o’ food an’ a couple o’ nights’ proper kip. Put ’er out again termorrer. Knife wounds ’ealin’ up nice.”

  “Good.” Hester nodded. However, she expected the woman Louvain had brought in to be worse—in fact, she was afraid she might be one of those they could not help beyond giving her as much comfort as possible in her last hours. At least she would not have to die alone.

  “But we got up of a dozen in, an’ there’s a bleedin’ lot o’ washin’ ter do,” Bessie answered. “I bin up all night wi’ that Clark woman. In’t much yer can do fer ’er, ’ceptin’ cool towels like yer said, but it seems ter ’elp. She still looks like the undertaker should ’ave ’er, but ’er fever in’t so bad, so I s’pose she’s on the mend. Temper in ’er, mind! Ruth’s too good a name for ’er. I’d a called ’er Mona if it’d bin up ter me.”