A Sunless Sea Read Online Free PDF

flinched, even for an instant, from representing Ballinger. Moreover, he had believed, at least in the very beginning, that he could and should win the case. Margaret’s accusation was unfair. He still stung from the injustice of it. Perhaps now, with a little time passed, she would know that.
    He told Ardmore he would be out for an hour or two. After collecting his hat and coat, he went into the lamplit streets to look for a hansom.
    H E ARRIVED AT THE NEW , far smaller house that Mrs. Ballinger had taken after her husband’s death. It was the fifth place down on a very ordinary terrace, a dramatic fall from the wealth and fashion of the house in which they had lived before, the one in which Margaret had grown up.
    As Rathbone stood on the pavement and looked at it, he felt a stab of pity, almost of shame, for the beautiful home he had moved into when he first married Margaret. She had done the interior, choosing the colors and fabrics, which were subtle and beautiful. They were moredaring than he would have picked, but once they were in place he liked them. They made his previous conservative taste seem bland. She had placed the pictures, the vases, the best of the ornaments. Some of them were wedding gifts.
    She had enjoyed being Lady Rathbone. He knew with sadness, and a bitter humor, that she had now stopped using the title, although she could hardly call herself Mrs. Rathbone. There was no such person. Neither of them had mentioned the subject of divorce, although the question of it hung between them, waiting for the inevitable decision. When would that be?
    Perhaps he should not have come. She might raise it now, and he was not ready. He did not know what he wanted to say. Neither of them had sinned in the way usually accepted as making a marriage intolerable. Sometimes one or the other party invented an affair and admitted to it, but Margaret would never do that, and Rathbone realized as he stood on the front doorstep, that neither would he. Neither had wronged the other, in that sense. They were simply morally incompatible, and perhaps that was worse. It was not a matter of forgiving. The division was not in what either had done, but in what they were.
    A parlor maid opened the door and her face registered her dismay when she recognized him.
    “Good evening,” Rathbone said, unable to remember her name, if he had ever known it. “Is Mrs. Ballinger at home?”
    “If you’ll come in, Sir Oliver, I’ll ask if she’s able to see you.” She stood back to allow him into the narrow hall, so different from the handsome, spacious one in the old house. It was darker, somehow shabbier, in spite of the homely touches and the clean smell of polish.
    There was no place for him to wait except there. The house had no morning room or study, just a simple parlor, dining room, and kitchens, probably just one to cook in, and a scullery for washing dishes. There was hardly need for more than a cook/housekeeper, one maid and a manservant of some sort, and perhaps one lady’s maid for both Margaret and her mother. Rathbone wondered wryly how much of this was paid for by his very generous allowance. Wherever she chose to live, she was still his wife.
    The maid appeared again, her face careful to show no expression.
    “Mrs. Ballinger will see you, Sir Oliver, if you will come this way, please.” She led him not to the parlor but to an unexpected small room next to the baize door into the kitchen. Possibly it was the housekeeper’s room.
    Mrs. Ballinger was standing inside. She wore black. Incredibly, it was only weeks since Ballinger had died—it felt like months had passed. Rathbone felt a wave of pity as he looked at her. She seemed smaller, as if everything in her life had shrunk. Her hair had faded and looked thinner; her shoulders sagged so that her gown hung awkwardly, even though it was an excellent one, kept from happier times. She did not fill it out as she used to. Her face was pale but there was a flicker of hope in