William Monk 09 - A Breach of Promise

doubted Barton Lambert would forgive a man who hurt his daughter, privately or publicly. It was not difficult to understand. He was not a foolish man, nor one without worldly wisdom, or he could not have made the wealth he had in a harsh and highly competitive trade. Manchester—that was the area where his accent proclaimed him to have lived—was not a soft city nor one easily to refine the rough edges from a man’s manner. But neither did it have the weary sophistication of London, the cosmopolitan mixture of cultures and the press and vigor of the world’s traffic. There was a kind of innocence to Barton Lambert, and looking at his face, Rathbone was sure his anger would be of the same spontaneous and unstoppable character.
    The conversation was about politics. FitzRobert had just said something about Mr. Gladstone.
    “Fine man,” Lambert agreed. “Knew his family.” He nodded.
    Of course. William Ewart Gladstone, “God’s vicar in the Treasury,” as he had been mockingly called, was a Manchester man. There was a ring of pride in Lambert’s voice.
    “Couldn’t be less like the Prime Minister,” FitzRobert went on, referring, no doubt, to Lord Palmerston’s reputation for wit and good fellowship and the distinct enjoyment of life, its pleasures as well as its duties.
    A thought crossed Rathbone’s mind about Mr. Gladstone’s fairly well known vigor regarding the opposite sex, and the occasionally understandable interpretation of his hospitality for the less fortunate of them, whose souls he believed he might save. However, in deference to the ladies present, especially Zillah, he forbore from making any remark. He caughtFitzRobert’s eye and kept his face perfectly composed, but with difficulty.
    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 ofcourse 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,