“Of course. Peter and I would love to pay a visit.”
His eyes lingered on Margaret for a few second before he turned his attention to his horse. Margaret felt Jonas’s hand rest on the small of her back as Brandon lifted himself up into the saddle.
“It was good seeing you, Margaret. Doctor Davies.”
Margaret nodded as he pulled his horse around and retraced his earlier gallop along the path, this time somewhat slower, Margaret noticed.
“He seems an amiable fellow,” Jonas said as they watched him leave.
“We were all terribly close once, Brandon, Blair, Peter, and I,” she said with a breathy air. She felt her heart ache at the memory of it. “And then, with a blink, we grew up.”
Chapter 9
O, how I long to be agen
That poor and independent man,
Ainsley winced against the pain in his right knee as he hobbled to his room. He had been able to deny anything was amiss for most of the day but it had caught up to him, and now he could barely bend it. He lowered himself onto his bed and lifted his leg onto the covers. He should have elevated it hours ago but his pride prevented him from admitting injury.
A creak in the floorboards drew his attention to the door, where Julia stood, a pitcher of warm water in one hand and a metal bucket in the other. “I saw you struggle up the stairs,” she said, without waiting for him to invite her in. After closing the door, she placed the bucket and the pitcher near the washbasin and then helped Ainsley roll his trousers up so they could look at his knee.
The joint had nearly doubled in width, swollen more on one side than the other. The skin had turned black in places, indicating internal hemorrhaging. Julia’s face fell at the sight of it.
“We should apply ice and heat,” she said, turning to the pitcher. She poured out the steaming liquid into the basin and used a washcloth to transfer the warm water to Ainsley. The pain was relieved the instant she placed the cloth upon it. “Hold this,” she said. While the heat permeated his swollen joint, she turned to the bucket. Using a different towel, she gathered a fistful of ice and tied the towel edges into a knot. Without warning, she exchanged the warm cloth for the iced towel. “Stay still,” she said.
Ainsley grimaced but willed himself to relax.
“What other injuries are you hiding?” she asked pointedly.
Ainsley showed her his hands, which had been gouged by the gravel upon his impact with the ground, and then the deep scratches on his elbow. These wounds did not need attention. Ainsley had already cleaned them and left them to heal but the injury to his knee was far more complex.
While alternating between heat and ice, Julia eyed him sympathetically. “Wounds are not limited to the physical,” she said, matter-of-factly.
Ainsley reached out to her and held his hand to her cheek. He hadn’t been cared for so lovingly since he was a small boy and while it made him uncomfortable to have Julia fuss so, he enjoyed her attentions and appreciated these windows of time when they could be together.
“My pride, I suppose,” he said.
Julia pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Margaret wishes I were more charitable. She says it’s our duty to help, and yet I cannot justify further harm to her or anyone else in this house,” Ainsley said. “Especially not after what happened.”
The warm water grew cold and Julia stopped her treatment.
“How bad is it?” Ainsley asked as Julia gathered up the cloths and deposited them in the washbasin. “Her scar, I mean.”
Julia’s movements became slow. “Bad enough Miss Margaret wishes no one to see it. She has asked me to alter the necklines of most of her dresses and will only wear others if they can accommodate her scarves.”
“Do you think it will improve?” Ainsley asked.
Julia shook her head. “It may lighten in colour but I doubt it will improve much. Her skin did not take to the stitches and—”
Ainsley raised a hand. He could not hear anymore. He felt personally responsible for her injury, for not finding their suspect before he found out who Margaret was. Until then, Ainsley cared nothing for his own safety and naïvely believed he could keep his professional life and family life separate. He had already decided that he would not make such an error again.
“You see then, why I cannot get involved?”
Julia nodded slowly. “Yes, I see.”
He knew she recognized the fear he felt, the anguish for not being able to protect Margaret. Julia understood him and all his complexities better than anyone else and that is why she held such a place in his heart. With her he could be both Peter and doctor, neither highborn nor tradesman. To Julia he was just Peter.
Alarm grew inside him as he watched her gather the items she had brought to his room. “Don’t leave me,” he said. With the bucket and pitcher in her hands, she smiled. “I’ll be back soon.” She planted a kiss on his forehead and left.
An hour or so passed and she did not return. The house grew quiet and the world beyond the lanterns faded into darkness. Ainsley waited up for Julia for a time but eventually gave into the lure of the sandman. Before heading to bed, he made sure his door was slightly ajar in case Julia came to him in the night. He didn’t dare seek her out in the house, not with so many people about. He couldn’t compromise her in such a way. He fell asleep easily but awoke slightly when he heard the floorboards in his room creaking.
He smiled into his pillow, thinking Julia had come to him as she had promised. The footfalls stopped at the side of his bed. Sleepily, he waited for her to climb in and moved to the side slightly for her to have room. But there was nothing.
Ainsley opened his eyes and saw no one at his bedside. He sat up and looked about the room. Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw that he was indeed alone. The door was still in the position where he left it and nothing else was amiss.
“Julia?” he whispered, knowing she wouldn’t answer. She’d have said something by now if she had come to him. He went to the door and peered out into the dark hallway. All the doors were closed and no light shone from anywhere. The reliable grandfather clock in the hall ticked, ticked, ticked away the night.
Ainsley swallowed nervously and closed his bedroom door. He couldn’t see anyone but that did not mean he was alone.
Chapter 10
With labour's lot from morn to night
By the next afternoon, word of the Marshalls inhabiting The Briar once again had spread through much of Tunbridge Wells. Margaret was forced to endure calls from four women she scarcely knew. She remembered enough of them to know they had ostracized her mother while she lived. Lady Charlotte Marshall had never been one to follow rules, and her chosen seclusion in the country had only served to fuel the fires of gossip. Lady Charlotte did not mind the isolation; she welcomed it, actually, but little exposure to receiving guests, attending other manor houses, and behaving with the upmost decorum left Margaret in a terrible position. Even with Aunt Louisa at her side, Margaret felt like an imposter.
“I was very dismayed to hear about your mother,” Lady Adele Cole said, placing her teacup back on its saucer daintily. She looked to her daughter then, eighteen-year-old Delilah, who was quick to take her cue.
“Yes, very tragic.”
They both looked at Margaret, eager to hear intimate details of Lady Charlotte’s untimely demise, details that Margaret was in no rush to relay.
No doubt sensing her niece’s discomfort, Aunt Louisa cleared her throat. “I’d heard on my travels back to England that your son will be a father soon.” Aunt Louisa looked Lady Cole squarely, with a smile tickling the very edge of her lips. “Does he have plans to marry the girl or will your grandchild be an underservant as well?”
Lady Cole’s face turned sour. She stood suddenly, entreated her daughter to follow, and left without a backward glance.
“That is how you put them in their place, Margaret,” Aunt Louisa instructed. “A person can only make you feel inferior if you give
them permission.”
Margaret looked to the empty sofa opposite them as Aunt Louisa slouched back into her seat.
“How do you do that?” Margaret asked. “How do you say such things knowing you will see them again in the future?”
“People talk. Nothing can be done for it,” Aunt Louisa explained, waving her hand dismissively. “The trick is to beat them at their own game. Show them you will not be defeated. The circumstances of your mother’s death cannot be changed but the talk”—Aunt Louisa waved a pointed finger at her—“you should have expected.”
Margaret nodded. She knew the scandal would follow them for some time.
“Show a little gumption, will you? If I have learned anything from my time in India it’s that predators can detect blood from miles away. Those women who just left are no different.” Aunt Louisa’s face turned solemn. She grabbed a throw cushion and laid it against her body, playing with the trim. “You have to show them you will not be toyed with.” A moment of contemplation followed before she finally tossed the cushion aside and sat up.
“Thank goodness, I have no daughters. But I do have a motherless niece”—Aunt Louisa grabbed Margaret by the upper arms and shook her ever so slightly—“and I will teach her everything I know.”
Margaret could not help but smile at this.
A faint rap on the door signalled Julia’s arrival. She stood to the side very primly before speaking. “Another caller, ma’am,” the maid said. “Lady Isabelle Thornton of Braeside as well as Lady Catherine Brundell, and her daughter, Bethany Brundell.”
Margaret popped up exuberantly from the sofa at the mention of Bethany’s name. The fact that she was accompanied by the Duchess of Sussex and Bethany’s mother, the Countess of Lansbury, was almost lost in the excitement. Margaret had known Bethany for a numbers of years and, until recently, Margaret believed her to be silly and spoilt. In recent months, however, Margaret grew to value her familiar face, and was even more thrilled to find that she had escaped to the countryside as well.
Had Aunt Louisa not placed a gentle hand on her niece’s forearm, Margaret would have rushed Bethany at the door and scurried her away to some secret corner. Given that she was not the only arrival, any private conversation would have to wait. Margaret watched her aunt step forward, greeting the duchess and countess gracefully before turning to Margaret.
“My niece, Lady Margaret,” she said softly, giving a gentle wave of her hand.
After proper curtsies and brief pleasantries, the assembly took their places on the sofas and chairs centred in the room. The picture of grace and elegance, neither the countess nor the duchess made mention of the dated wallpaper or faded furnishings.
“Mother, doesn’t Margaret look much better?” Bethany asked, reaching from her chair to take Margaret’s hand in her own.
The countess smiled and nodded. “You really do look the picture of health, my dear.”
“The country air agrees with you,” Lady Thornton said. “I wonder why you and Peter have not called on the boys.”
At the mention of Blair and Brandon, Margaret smiled. As children, Margaret remembered Peter casting her aside numerous times, midgame, to chase the boys in the forest that connected both the Braeside Estate and The Briar property. For many summers he seemed to prefer their company over Margaret’s, before he caught on that his sister enjoyed a good romp in the woods as well. Margaret distinctly remembered the boys teasing her for having cast off her boots and choosing to run barefoot. Already confined by a dress, the young Margaret was not about to be thwarted further by laced-up boots.
“Peter has been busy hosting Dr. Davies, a prominent surgeon from London,” Aunt Louisa offered by way of explanation. “I’m sure he would have come to call had he known the boys were here.”
“Oh yes, each summer they come to ride their horses and play at sport. It would seem I can’t get rid of them,” Lady Thornton said with a laugh. “Not that I’m in any hurry to be rid of them. Brandon’s impending marriage has me in such a state. I’m quite happy Blair’s heart hasn’t been stolen as yet.” She offered Margaret an admiring smile. “However, I do believe, Lady Margaret, you could seize it in an instant. You’ve grown into such a pretty thing.”
Lady Brundell eased forward in her seat. “Your mother would be proud, my dear.”
Margaret knew the women were attempting to flatter her and she truly wished they wouldn’t bother. Thankfully, the conversation turned, never requiring her to reply.
Absentmindedly, Margaret touched the lace at her throat and then, realizing what she had done, began to worry that she had somehow dislodged the scarf to reveal her scar.
When Margaret looked up she found Bethany looking at her sympathetically. She had been there when that monster had attacked her. She couldn’t know how much damage he had done, and was most likely thankful that Margaret had not perished while on an outing with her. Margaret felt nothing but guilt for not sharing in Bethany’s positive point of view. Margaret felt grotesque and tainted, forever mutilated by a man trying to hurt her brother.
After a time, the women agreed to take a turn around the garden together. Given the amount of rain that had fallen lately, they said, it seemed silly to spend such a sunny day inside of doors. The change in venue presented the perfect opportunity for Bethany and Margaret to separate themselves from the larger gathering. Once out in the garden, they locked arms and allowed their steps to shorten until finally they were a good distance from the older women.
“I’m sorry I did not come to visit sooner,” Bethany said, practically pouting.
“Nonsense,” Margaret answered dismissively. “You are here now and I am glad of it.”
“Peter has not been asking for me?”
Margaret had to bite her tongue to keep herself from laughing. Bethany was happy to set her cap for Peter indefinitely, it seemed. “He is not worthy of your devotion.”
“You are right, but I will not give up hope.”
Margaret looked away to keep a straight face before deciding on a change of subject. “Are you familiar with the Owens family?” Margaret asked.
“Isn’t everyone? Brother has been purchasing his horses from them for years. Last summer he bought a filly that finished the Epsom in third. Grandmama said she’d never seen such a sprint. So many of his friends attend the farm, you know, to train the horses and see the new stock. Mother says they all put money on little races, illegally betting, you know, but it’s all for good fun. Are you interested in a horse? Perhaps not for racing, but a bit of riding. This must mean you plan to stay then, and not return to London.” Bethany stopped. “This isn’t about that fellow, is it?”
Margaret shook her head but Bethany spoke so quickly she was not permitted a word.
“Good. The papers said he had been killed in a brawl or some such thing, so there’s no need to worry on that account.”
Margaret let out a sigh, quickly realizing that getting information from Bethany Brundell on a single topic was going to be a difficult task. The girl could hardly stay on point longer than two sentences.
“Have you been introduced to Ivy Owen, then?” Margaret asked, raising her voice to halt another round of chattering.
“Delightful girl,” Bethany said. “A bit strange, but I suppose who wouldn’t be after what happened.” Bethany looked to Margaret. “You do know what happened, don’t you?”
Margaret shook her head. She’d laugh were she not afraid of what Bethany was about to tell her.
“Her mother died a number of years ago. Ivy was still in nappies when it happened, or so my mother said. They said Annabelle just fell to the floor, suffered some internal ailment.”
“Oh dear.”
“That’s not all.”
Margaret closed her eyes, readying herself for the next bit.
“No one was home at the time save for Ivy and her mother, so when Annabelle died Ivy was left for hours with the body just right there beside her. The babe didn’t move or cry or anything.”
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“Now I wish I didn’t know,” Margaret said suddenly feeling a sunken feeling in her chest. “How dreadful.”
“I’ve seen her a number of times just staring off into nothing,” Bethany said, frowning deeply. “She’s not soft in the head or anything,” she explained, “just not like you and I.”
Chapter 11
And books to read at candle light;
Summer Hill Farm was not far from The Briar. Ivy and her family occupied a small acreage at the end of a long gravel road. As the carriage bumped along, Margaret surveyed the land, noting how their fields of hay and pasture came into view long before the modest house. Made of stone, the farmhouse looked centuries old, built sturdily on the sod before time took hold. The ground looked as if it were attempting to swallow the structure whole, gently pulling the house down and in on itself.
The stables gave another perspective on the operation entirely. The expansive structure was three barns connected as one. No expense had been spared during its construction. A maze of fences and paddocks spread from the stables out into the hills beyond, only halted by a standing of trees at the backside of the barn. An ornamental weathervane stood at the highest peak of the roof, a horse galloping into the wind.
Margaret licked her dry lips as the carriage came to a stop near the tall but half-dead sycamore tree next to the pond.
She wasn’t the only visitor who had come that day. Teams of horses and riders entered and exited the stable. Farmhands burdened with wheelbarrows and pitchforks made their way to and fro, completing their daily chores.
Margaret hadn’t been picturing an operation so lively. When Garret described his family’s farm he did so modestly and never hinted at such a thriving operation.
Walter, the Marshall family driver, hopped down from his perch and opened the door for her. He gave Margaret a doubtful look when he offered his hand so she could step down.
“What’s the matter, Walter?” she asked, adjusting her gloves.
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