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 Lordsseveral 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
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 Lordsseveral 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
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