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And indeed when Rathbone came for her and she was unintentionally a few minutes late, thought of appearance lingered only a moment before it vanished in the pleasure of seeing him, and a quickening of her pulse as she recalled their last parting and the touch of his lips upon hers.
“Good evening, Oliver,” she said breathlessly as she almost tripped on the last stair and hurried across the hall to where he stood a few feet from a surprised butler. He looked startlingly elegant to be calling for the hired nurse, and was quite obviously a gentleman.
He smiled back at her, exchanged some pleasantries, then escorted her out to the waiting hansom.
The evening was cold but quite dry, and for once there was no fog and a clear view of a three-quarter moon over the rooftops. They rode in companionable conversation about totally trivial matters—the weather, political gossip, a smattering of foreign news—until they reached the theater and alighted. He had chosen a play of wit and good humor, something for a social occasion rather than to challenge the mind or harrow the emotions.
They stepped inside and were instantly engulfed in a tide of colors and light and the hubbub of chatter as women swirled past, huge skirts brushing one another, faces eager to greet some old acquaintance or to pursue some new one.
It was the social life Hester had been accustomed to before she went to the Crimea, when she was at home in her father’s house and it was everyone’s very natural assumption that she would meet an eligible young man and marry, one hoped within a year or two at most. That had only been six years before, but it seemed like a lifetime. Now it was alien, and she had lost the skills.
“Good evening, Sir Oliver!” A large lady bore down on them enthusiastically. “How charming to see you again. I had quite feared we had lost the pleasure of your company. You do know my sister, Mrs. Maybury, don’t you!” It was a statement, not a question. “May I introduce you to her daughter, my niece, Miss Mariella Maybury?”
“How do you do, Miss Maybury.” Rathbone bowed to the young woman with practiced ease. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope you will enjoy the play. It is said to be most entertaining. Mrs. Trowbridge, may I introduce to you Miss Hester Latterly.” He offered no further explanation, but put his hand on Hester’s elbow as if making some affirmation that she was not a mere acquaintance but a friend towards whom he felt a sense of pride and even closeness.
“How do you do, Miss Latterly,” Mrs. Trowbridge said with ill-concealed surprise. Her rather thin eyebrows rose as if she were about to add something further, but whatever it was eluded her.
“How do you do, Mrs. Trowbridge,” Hester answered politely, a little trickle of warmth bubbling inside her. “Miss Maybury.”
Mrs. Trowbridge fixed Hester with a baleful eye. “Have you known Sir Oliver long, Miss Latterly?” she asked sweetly.
Hester was about to reply truthfully but Rathbone spoke first.
“We have been acquainted for several years,” he said with an air of satisfaction. “But I feel we are better friends now than ever before. Sometimes I think the best affections grow slowly, through shared beliefs and battles fought side by side … don’t you?”
Miss Maybury looked lost.
Mrs. Trowbridge caught her breath. “Indeed.” She nodded. “Especially family friendships. Are you a family friend, Miss Latterly?”
“I know Sir Oliver’s father, and I like him enormously,” Hester answered, again with the truth.
Mrs. Trowbridge murmured something inaudible.
Rathbone bowed and offered his arm to Hester, leading her away towards another group of people, most of them men in their middle years and obviously well-to-do. He introduced Hester to them one by one, each time without explanation.
By the time they had taken their seats and the curtain had risen on the first act, Hester’s mind was whirling. She had seen the speculation in their eyes. Rathbone knew precisely what he was doing.
Now she sat beside him in the box and could not help glancing away from the stage to watch what expression she could read in his face in the reflected lights. He seemed at ease—if anything, a trifle amused. A very slight smile touched his lips and the skin across his cheeks was perfectly smooth. Then she glanced down at his hands and saw they were
constantly moving, only slightly, but as if he found himself unable to keep them still. He was nervous about something.
She turned back to the stage, her heart beating so she felt she could almost hear it. She watched the actors and heard all their words, but a moment later could not have recalled anything of it. She thought of the first time she had come to the theater with Rathbone. Then she had said far more, probably too much, expressing her opinions on the things she felt most passionate about. He had been courteous, he always would be, his own dignity would forbid anything else. But she had been aware of the coolness in him, always a certain distance, as if he wanted to be sure his friends did not assume too much about his regard for her, or that their relationship to each other was more than slight. His conventionality deplored her outspokenness, as if it admired her courage and fought in different ways for the same end.
But since then he had defended Zorah Rostova and nearly ruined his career. He had learned in an acutely real way the boundaries of judgment and intolerance of his own profession, and how quickly society could reverse its loyalties when certain borders were crossed. Compassion and belief did not excuse. He had spoken from conviction and without weighing the results first. Suddenly he and Hester were on the same side of the gulf which had separated them before.
Was that what he was aware of and which at once alarmed and exhilarated him?
She turned to look at him again and found he was also looking at her. She had remembered how dark his eyes were, in spite of his fair brown hair, but still she was startled at their warmth. She smiled, then swallowed and turned back to the stage. She must pretend she was interested, that at least she knew what was going on. She had not the faintest idea. She could not even have identified the hero or the villain, presuming there was one.
When the interval came she found she was ridiculously self-conscious.
“Are you enjoying it?” he asked as he followed behind her up to the foyer, where refreshments were served.
“Yes, thank you,” she answered, hoping he would not press her as to the plot.
“And if I told you I have not been paying close attention to it, that my mind was elsewhere, could you tell me what I have missed?” he said gently. “So I may understand the second act.”
She thought quickly. She must concentrate on what he was saying, not on what he might mean—or might not! She must not leap to conclusions and perhaps embarrass them both. Then she would never be able to resume their friendship. It would be over, even if neither of them acknowledged it, and that would hurt. She realized with surprise how very much it would hurt.
