Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

And he was contemplating allowing himself to love Margaret just as deeply-wasn’t he? With all the strength of emotion he possessed. It defied every instinct of self-preservation he had followed all his life. It was a denial of sanity, the ultimate madness.

Had he any choice? Can one decide whether to love or not? Yes, probably. One could walk away from life and choose half a life, paralysis of the soul.

He had walked away from Hester, and she had been wise enough to refuse him anyway, perhaps for precisely that reason. Monk had had the courage of spirit to care, and she knew that, and valued it for the infinite worth it was. Now Monk would be racked by it forever if she died.

Margaret was safe, as much as anything warm and living and vulnerable was ever safe. If he wanted to be part of life, not merely a watcher, then he would let himself love as well. Perhaps it was the nature of caring that you could not help it. There was no choice to make; your own nature had already made it. If you could pull back then you were not wholly involved.

He had never admired Monk more than he did at this moment, for the courage it had taken him to risk everything. With that knowledge came a pity so deep it hollowed out new places within himself and filled them with a helplessness that twisted like a knife. There was nothing to say or do as Monk turned and walked to the door. Their friendship was deeper than Rathbone had acknowledged to himself before, and it was on the brink of being destroyed because part of Monk himself would be lost.

If friendship could hurt so profoundly, what in heaven’s name could love do?

Rathbone spent the rest of the day catching up on other work he had put aside in order to prepare for the Gould case, and much of the following morning also.

However, his mind was made up regarding Margaret. Time was precious, far more so than he had appreciated until now. He had dithered on the brink of asking her to marry him. It was both cowardly and foolish. He had written to her and dispatched the letter by messenger, inviting her to dinner that evening, and rather than wait till this crisis was past, whatever the relief, or the irretrievable loss, he would tell her his feelings and ask her to marry him.

As he dressed, regarding himself unusually critically in the glass, he was aware with surprise that he had taken it for granted that she would accept. It had not occurred to him until this moment that it was possible she would not.

Then he realized why the nerves in his stomach were jumping and there was a tightness in his throat. It was not that she might decline. Everything in society and in her personal circumstances dictated that she accept, and he was perfectly certain that there was no other suitor she was considering. She was far too honest to have allowed him to court her had there been. She would accept him. The question that turned and twisted inside him was would she love him? She would be loyal, because loyalty was in her nature. She would be gentle, even-tempered, generous of spirit, but she would have done that for anyone. It was not enough. To have all that, not because she loved him but because it was a matter of her honor that she should give it, would be a refinement of torture he could not bear to face. Yet if he did not ask her, he had already chosen failure.

He took a hansom to call on her, and this time he found Mrs. Ballinger’s attentions even more difficult to receive gracefully. His emotions were far too raw to expose to her acute perception. He had no layer of wit with which to defend himself, and he found parrying her enquiries extremely hard work. He was relieved when Margaret was unfashionably punctual; in fact, he was deeply grateful for it.

He offered her his arm, bade Mrs. Ballinger a good evening, and went out to the waiting hansom just a fraction more hastily than was graceful.

“Have you heard anything more from Monk?” Margaret asked as soon as he had given the cabbie instructions. “What is happening? Has he heard from Hester?”

“Yes, I have seen Monk again,” he replied. “He came to my chambers yesterday morning, but he had heard nothing from Portpool Lane. I know no more than you do.”

She made a tiny sound of desperation. “How was he?”

How could he protect her from pain? To love and cherish her was the privilege he was seeking to obtain for the rest of their lives. Surely he should begin now?

“He is trying very hard to find evidence to help Gould’s trial,” he replied. “It starts tomorrow.”

“Sir Oliver!” she said simply. “Please do not patronize me. I asked you because I wished to know the truth. If it is a confidence you cannot tell me, then say so, but do not tell me something untrue simply because you believe it is what I wish to hear. How is Monk?”

He felt powerfully rebuked. “He looks dreadful,” he said honestly. “I have never seen anyone suffer as he is doing now. And I know of no way to help him. I feel as if I am watching a man drown, and standing by with my arms folded.”

She turned to face him, the carriage lamps of the passing traffic throwing a flickering light on her face. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That at least I believe. And please don’t blame yourself like that; no one can help. There are not many occasions that friendship cannot improve, but I think this might be one of them. We can only do our best, and be there if the time should come when there is something to do.”

There was no answer that was large enough, so he made none. A kind of peace settled between them. He thought how fortunate he was to be sitting beside her, and the resolve within him to ask her to marry him became even more certain.

They arrived at the home of their hosts and alighted. They were welcomed in their turn, there being over a score of guests. It was a very formal affair, women in magnificent gowns, richly embroidered, jeweled combs and tiaras glittering in their hair, diamonds on earlobes and around pale throats.

Margaret wore very little adornment, only a simple pearl necklace, and he was surprised how anything so modest could please him so much. It had a purity that was like a quiet statement of her own worth.

Within a few moments they were absorbed into the buzz of conversation. He had been accustomed to such parties for years, but he had never found it quite so intensely difficult to chatter politely without saying anything of meaning. He recognized several people and did not wish to become involved in exchanges with them because he knew he could not concentrate. His usual ease of manner was impossible. Emotions threatened to break through his composure, and it required a constant vigilance to conceal them. He wanted to protect Margaret from the intrusive speculation that was customary. He had escorted her several times now, and it was inevitable that many would be waiting for him to make some declaration. They would be watching her for pride, disappointment, desperation. It was all intrusive, unintentionally cruel, and a part of society they both took for granted.

Far more deeply than that, he wanted to protect her from the fear she felt for Hester and the sense of helplessness because there was nothing she could do beyond continuing to raise money.

“How charming to see you again, Miss Ballinger,” Mrs. Northwood said meaningfully, looking first at Margaret, then at Rathbone.

Rathbone drew in his breath to answer her, then saw Margaret’s face and realized she did not care. She had caught the implication and it barely touched her. He felt a rush of admiration for her. How beautiful she was in her passion and integrity, beside these bright and trivial women. What did a little social prurience matter, compared with the horror that was going on less than two miles away in Portpool Lane?

He moved a little closer to her.