Anne Perry - Acceptable Loss

Now he found his anxiety slipping away. They would negotiate the evening, whatever challenges it offered. It was a family occasion; the past and its unproved accusations should be left behind. To entertain them was unjust.

“Come.” He offered her his arm. “The carriage will be at the door any moment.” He smiled at her and saw the answering pleasure in her eyes.

They arrived just after Margaret’s elder sister, Gwen, and her husband, Wilbert, and followed them into the long oak-paneled withdrawing room. Wilbert was thin, fair-haired, and rather earnest. Rathbone had never discovered exactly what occupation he followed, but apparently he had inherited money and was interested in politics. Gwen was only a year or two older than Margaret, and not unlike her to look at. She had the same high, smooth brow and soft hair; her features were prettier, but lacked a little of Margaret’s individuality. Because of that, to him she was less attractive.

The eldest sister, Celia, was already present, sitting on the couch opposite her husband, George. She was the handsomest of the three. She had beautiful dark hair and eyes, but Rathbone noticed that she was beginning to thicken a little in the waist and was already more buxom than he cared for. The diamonds at her ears must have cost as much as a good pair of carriage horses, if not more.

Mrs. Ballinger let go the embrace of her middle daughter and came forward to welcome Margaret, the last of her daughters to achieve matrimony, but also the one who had done the best. Rathbone had not only money, but now a title, and he was very personable into the bargain.

“How lovely to see you again, Oliver,” she said warmly. “I am so happy your commitments allowed you time for a little pleasure. Margaret, my dear, you look wonderful!” She kissed Margaret on both cheeks and offered her hand to Rathbone.

A moment later Ballinger himself was shaking Rathbone’s hand with a firm grip. However, his eyes were guarded, offering no clues as to his inner thoughts. Had it always been like that, or was Rathbone noticing it now, because of Phillips’s death and Sullivan’s accusation?

They had barely time to exchange greetings and make a few polite inquiries as to health and recent social engagements, when dinner was announced and they went into the enormous and lavish dining room with its hot Indian-red walls and glittering chandeliers, its over-spilling bowls of fruit on the sideboard. The table, which could have comfortably seated sixteen, was superbly set with the best crystal and silver, cut-glass bowls of bonbons, and snow-white linen napkins folded like swans. In the center, there was one of the loveliest arrangements of flowers that Rathbone could remember seeing-late roses in crimson and apricot, and tawny bronze chrysanthemum heads. It was given additional character by two spires of something deep, rich purple.

“Mama-in-law,” he said spontaneously, “this is quite amazing. I have never seen a more exquisite table anywhere.”

She blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Oliver. I believe even the best food is complemented by beauty to the eye.” She glanced at her husband to see if he had heard the compliment, and when she saw that he had, her satisfaction doubled.

They took their places, and the first course was served-a delicate soup, quickly finished. It was followed by baked fish.

Celia made some trivial remark about a display of drawings she had seen, and her mother replied. Ballinger looked around them all, smiling. Gradually the conversation embraced each one of them in turn. There was laughter and compliments. Rathbone began to feel included.

Ballinger asked his opinion a number of times on various subjects. The fish was removed, and saddle of mutton was served with roasted and boiled vegetables, rich sauce, and garnishes. The men ate heartily, the women accepting less and eating a mouthful or two, and then resting before eating a little more. Conversation moved to more serious subjects: social issues and matters of reform.

Ballinger made a joke with quick, dry wit, and they all laughed. Rathbone told an anecdote. They applauded it, Ballinger leading, looking at them all to join in, which they did, as if given permission to be enthusiastic.

There was more wine, and then pudding was served, an excellent apple flan with thick cream, or treacle tart for those who preferred. Most of the men took both.

Rathbone looked across at Margaret and saw the flush in her cheeks, her eyes bright and soft. He realized with surprise and considerable pleasure not only that she was happy but that she was actually proud of him, not for his skills in argument or his professional reputation, but for his charm, which was so much more personal a thing. The warmth inside him had nothing to do with the dinner or the wine.

“They tried to get some curb on it through the House of Lords several years ago,” he said in answer to a question of Wilbert’s about industrial pollution in rivers, in particular the Thames.

“I remember that.” George looked at Ballinger, then at Rathbone. “Narrowly defeated, if I’m right?”

Ballinger nodded, suddenly very sober. “Lord Cardew was one of the main backers of that, poor man.”

“Hopeless cause,” George said with a shake of his head. “Far too much power behind it. Richer than the Bank of England. Put all the filth there is into the rivers, and we’re helpless to stop them.”

“We did stop them,” Ballinger said sharply, a ring of pride to his voice.

“But it failed,” George pointed out.

“In Parliament, yes,” Ballinger argued. “But there was a civil suit a few months after that, which they won on appeal a year later.”

Rathbone was interested. Pollution was a subject he cared about increasingly as he realized the human misery it caused. But he knew the industrial might behind it and was surprised that an appeal could succeed.

“Really? How on earth did anyone manage that? It would come before the Court of Appeal, and with that sort of money at stake, most likely Lord Garslake himself would hear it.” Garslake was Master of the Rolls, the head of all civil justice appeals. His leanings were well known, his financial interests less so.

Ballinger smiled. “He was persuaded to change his views,” he said quietly.

“I’d like to know how.” George was openly skeptical.

Ballinger looked at him with amusement. “I dare say you would, but it is not a public matter.”

“Did Lord Cardew have something to do with it?” Mrs. Ballinger asked. “I know he felt deeply on the subject.”

Ballinger patted her arm lightly. “My dear, you know better than to ask, as I know better than to tell you.”

“You said ‘poor man.’ ” Wilbert raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Why?”

Ballinger shook his head. “Oh, because his elder son died. Boating accident somewhere in the Mediterranean. Dreadful business.” His face was dark, as if the sorrow of it were still with him, in spite of the legal success.

Margaret’s fingers rested gently on her father’s. “Papa, you grieved for him at the time. I know it won’t heal-perhaps such things never do-but you can’t go on hurting for him. At least he still has one son living.”

Ballinger raised his head a little and turned over his hand to clasp hers and hold it.

“You are quite right of course, my dear. But not everyone is as fortunate in their children as I am. You could not know, nor should you, but Charles Cardew was a magnificent young man: sober, honest, highly intelligent, with a great future in front of him. Rupert is in most ways his exact opposite. Handsomer, to his downfall.” He stopped abruptly, as if feeling that he had said too much.

“Is it a downfall to be handsome?” Gwen asked curiously. “Was poor Charles plain, then?”