“No interruption,” Jonas answered, his breathing more controlled though still uneven. “Would you like to come—” he stepped aside but stopped himself. “Perhaps that is not gentlemanly.” He bore a look of worry, afraid he had committed a deep faux pas and looked to Jacob as if to apologize.
Margaret hesitated to enter. She did not want to see the girl, whomever she might be, even if the trollop had miraculously dressed while they stood on Jonas' doorstep. After a moment's pause she dared to ask what was nagging at her.
“Who is she?” Her voice was cold and distant.
Bewildered, Jonas looked at her, as if questioning the origin of her enquiry. “Pardon?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I'm not stupid,” she said, momentarily forgetting the true purpose of her visit. “Whoever she is I hope you have enough respect to make her breakfast in the morning.”
Propelled by anger, she turned, much to the relief of Jacob who seemed all too ready to help her into the carriage and leave.
“Margaret!” Jonas stepped out into the pavement, grabbing her arm to turn her around. “There's no girl, if that's what you’re thinking.”
Margaret swallowed, suddenly finding it hard to look at him, purposely avoiding the patch of bare chest she could see beyond the undone top buttons of his shirt.
“You can not blame me for making that assumption.”
For a brief moment Jonas looked lost until Margaret's eyes flickered to his chest and quickly moved away, staring over his shoulder. Doing up the last three buttons he groaned, suddenly aware of his misstep. “If you must know I performed a surgery today, a rather...” he searched for the proper word, “messy one that didn't come to a happy end.”
Margaret's face fell at the thought of it.
“I was changing my shirt because parts of the young man followed me home,” he continued indignantly.
“I am sorry to hear that,” she said, “It must be a hard time for you.”
“It is.”
He wasn't angry with her, Margaret knew as much but she felt completely helpless to comfort him, and even more silly for coming to bother him in the first place. The identity of her mother's lover seemed inconsequential now that she was home safe and sound, more or less while Jonas treated dying men and women all day. A moment of quiet contemplation passed between them before Jonas' face softened.
“Why did you come, Margaret?” he asked.
She swallowed hard and looked back to Jacob who waited expectantly. “Take a carriage ride with me?”
A carriage ride with a bachelor, even with open curtains, was only slightly less unseemly than disappearing into his parlour without a chaperone. Jacob seemed determined to stay on the main, well lit roads though Margaret quickly drew the curtains to shield them and their conversation from inquisitive pedestrians.
Before they left Jonas had grabbed his jacket and a tie and within a few moments he was seated across from her, his one leg bent and propped up on his knee, a hand purposely clasped on his ankle, while his free arm was stretched out across the back of the bench beside him. He looked so relaxed Margaret thought he would light up a cigarette at any moment. His nonchalance annoyed her greatly, especially since she felt like a tightly wound ball of wool.
Their relationship had been easy once, friends because Peter wished them to be, but since that kiss and his subsequent desertion of her and Peter, Margaret could feel the strain. She had thought she loved him once but finding him at home in such a state of undress reminded her that he was a ladies' man, a gambler and a doctor. He could never be tamed. Even if they could be together she would always wonder, never fully trusting him because of his past.
“Did you really think I was entertaining a woman?” he asked.
Margaret licked her lips, biting into the top lip slightly. “You have to agree it is not out of the realm of possibility.”
Even though they sat with their knees practically touching, the distance between them was expansive. In the failing light she saw him shake his head in disbelief, glancing out the window momentarily before returning a hardened gaze toward her.
“It was all I could do to get out of the house without Julia knowing where I went.” Margaret grew tense, remembering the afternoon she had had with Julia following her from room to room. Margaret had uttered less than four words to the maid and hoped the lady’s maid would soon give notice so Margaret would no longer have such a shadow about her.
“Julia?”
“My new lady's maid. Father hired her. It's dreadful. She's quiet, reserved and so very helpful. She does so much for me I think I will scream.”
Jonas' lips curled slightly. “Dreadful.”
“You misunderstand. She's my father's spy. She has access to my clothes, my trinkets, my entire life. I have to tell her where I am going so she can help me dress appropriately and all I can think is how unfair it is that my brothers can come and go as they please while I must be tethered to the house in some way. And she has such a nice demeanor it is hard to dislike her.”
Jonas' laugh was one of amusement and arrogance. “Do not dislike her,” he said with a slight shrug.
Margaret wished very much that she had not brought it up. She had not expected him to make fun of her.
“Become friends with her,” he explained after some more laughter. “Switch her loyalty from your father to you.”
“Could it be so easy?” she asked, already growing weary of his arrogance.
Jonas shrugged and the tension grew exponentially. Margaret thought it may have been a mistake to come see him. Their exchange was formal and controlled, and as much as she wanted to confess how much his kiss meant to her she held back. Seeing the way he was now and the manner in which he held her at a distance made her think that perhaps it was just a dream.
“Mother is home,” she blurted out, deciding to get straight to the matter at hand.
Jonas smiled slightly. “I am glad to hear it.”
“I should feel relieved but I don't,” she explained.
“She is home, that is all that matters,” Jonas said. “I had heard a rumour that Scotland Yard had brought in the body of Lady Marshall.”
Margaret's face fell at the memory of Peter telling her just that at the hospital that afternoon. She nodded. “Peter told me about their mistake. Must have been dreadful for him.”
“Be grateful it was an error and not your reality.”
Margaret saw something in Jonas' eyes, though he tried hard enough to prevent her from seeing. There were tears, she thought but when he looked back to her they were gone. What was it, she wondered, that struck him so harshly? He was angry with her for assuming he was entertaining a woman and now it seemed he was hurt by her inability to be appreciative.
“I am grateful,” she retorted, perhaps a little too forcefully. “I am just not sure the worst is over.” She expected him to have a quick retort, to offer some basic advice or easy solution but he remained silent, perhaps unable or unwilling to allay her fears. “Jonas, I need to know who he is,” she said at last. “Did you see his face? Did you recognize him?”
It took him a moment to answer. He shifted slightly in his seat which Margaret could not be sure was due to the movement of the carriage. “I don't think—”
“Jonas, please! I have to know.”
“What will you do, chase him down and demand answers?” Jonas asked.
Margaret looked to her hands, twisted together slightly on the folds of her dress. “No,” she answered meekly. “I just need to know what kind of person he is. Is he the type to want to support her, to marry her? You can tell a lot by a person without even speaking to them.”
“You mean judge them,” Jonas said. He did not wait for Margaret to answer but she was so dumbfounded by his words she wouldn't have said much anyway. “I saw all I needed to,” he said with a deep exhale of breath, “and then all I saw was the hurt on your face, that was all I could think about.”
Margaret closed her eyes in disbelief. �
�I try to remember but it's all a fog. I can remember her,” Margaret looked up pleadingly, “and you.”
She did not know what she expected; perhaps she thought he would remember their kiss or take pity on her and soften his demeanor. Maybe she felt he would see how much she cared about him. Whatever she expected she was sorely disappointed.
He exhaled loudly and adjusted himself in his seat pulling his coat in tighter around his body. It was as if he looked at her but could not see her. She knew then that he was truly lost to her.
“I don't remember,” he said with a slight shake of his head. His tone was so definitive that Margaret did not press. “What does it matter, Margaret?” he asked. “She came home.”
She found herself feeling angry, the red heat of frustration radiating from her core. Because it matters, she thought. It matters that she disappeared for days without anyone knowing where she went or how she fared, leaving their imaginations to assume the worst. It matters because the woman who returned does not resemble her mother in any way. It matters because something simply does not feel right. As much as Margaret wanted to feel the affair was over, in her heart she felt it was only the beginning of something much worse.
Chapter 14
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
Ainsley had not ventured down to the kitchens of the Belgravia house since he was a young boy. Despite a near free reign at The Briar, all the Marshall children were promptly dispatched by Billis should they try to head down. The butler's office, which he shared with the head housekeeper, was set right at the bottom of the stairs. An open door was all Billis' needed to ensure there was no unauthorized entry into his domain. That day, however, Billis was not in his office and Ainsley was able to walk past without being noticed.
The basement was a long hallway with the kitchens, scullery and larder on one side and Billis' office, and laundry area on the other. Ahead of him Ainsley saw Julia walk from one of the rooms with a silver dress draped over her arm. She walked toward him with her head bowed and her hand running along the smooth satin fabric, a smile hinting at the corners of her mouth.
“Is Margaret wearing that tonight?” he asked.
The young maid stopped, suddenly aware she was not alone. “Yes, sir,” she answered sharply. Her dreamy demeanor vanished and her gaze fell to the floor as he walked toward her. “I was just checking the hue against some ribbons I found...” her voice trailed off, uncertain.
“Is Violetta about?” he asked, sensing her discomfort. He looked into the doorway of the kitchen but saw only the scullery maid at the sink.
Julia glanced up slightly and nodded. “She is down the hall, sir.”
Ainsley smiled his thanks and continued down towards the far end of the hall. After a few steps, he looked over his shoulders to see Julia staring after him. It was not the fact that she was looking at him that unsettled him. He was used to that sort of attention. It was the look in her eyes, a look of sadness that came over her when she saw him. Ainsley felt as if he had seen it before.
Their eyes met for a brief moment, before she turned abruptly and dashed up the stairs, the long shirt of Margaret's silver dress rippling behind her as she went.
Violetta was seated near a long thin window that allowed in a small measure of light. A length of fabric in one hand and a threaded needle in the other, she strained against the dim light to sew tiny beads into the fabric. As he stepped closer, Ainsley recognized the fabric as a dress his mother was in the habit of wearing on special occasions. It became obvious the lady's maids were spending much of the day preparing for the engagement dinner later that evening.
Ainsley watched for a long while before Violetta finally looked up. “Mr. Marshall,” she said, lowering the needlework that made her hunch over. She smiled at first and then it faded. “Is something amiss? The mistress?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Violetta gave an audible sigh and raised a hand to her heart. “Even His Lordship does not venture down to the kitchens,” she answered with a slight laugh.
“I have come with enquiries,” he said, deciding he needed to take a firm tone with her if he expected her to give him the answers he needed. Her loyalty to his mother was commendable but it would not serve his purpose. “I need to know where Her Ladyship was.”
He saw Violetta swallow nervously and then bite her lower lip. She shook her head and opened her mouth as if to say something but nothing came.
“You know my mother better than anyone.” Ainsley coaxed, “And you were with her, Violetta.”
Older than his mother, Violetta could have been a grandmother or great-aunt to Ainsley and his siblings. She could be both stern and loving within the same sentence. This instance was no different.
“Mr. Marshall knows better than to ask me for his mother's secrets,” she answered firmly. “They are hers alone.” She turned back to her needle and thread.
Ainsley hadn't expected his quest to be fruitful, his mother had a way of inciting loyalty as easily as she provoked smiles, but he knew he must try.
“I know about the laudanum,” he said.
Violetta's work stopped, her hand frozen mid-air, her fingers pinching the needle. She remained quiet for a moment, her eyes trained on her mistress's dress and then she started again, saying nothing.
“She takes it regularly,” Ainsley prodded. “I know this. Now that I have found her empty bottles I can see the signs clearly enough.”
“I can not say,” Violetta answered. “Even if I wanted to tell what I know, you know I couldn't,” she replied, looking up from her work briefly.
“She works you like a mule,” Ainsley nearly yelled. He could feel heat rising into his cheeks and his hands curling into fists. “How can you be loyal to that?”
“Because convention—”
“Oh damn convention!” Ainsley turned from her and paced the wide room. The smell of lye and ash invaded his senses as he walked to the corner. “Violetta, I am not defending my father,” a laugh accompanied his words, “but my mother—”
“Needs help. Yes, but I will not betray her confidence to open her to ridicule and abuse.” Violetta spoke firmly, like any good matron would over her charges. Perhaps she felt his mother was in need of her care and, therefore, protection.
Her position seemed solid against Ainsley's barrage. He could not argue against such loyalty. It did not seem right that she paid such loyalty to his mother forsaking everyone else.
“Your heart is placed right, Mr. Marshall, however misguided.”
Ainsley nodded and turned to leave stopping short at the threshold. With his head bent to the floor, his arms holding both sides of the door, he spoke in a near whisper. “Was she with him?” he asked.
The maid was silent and he was forced to turn. He needed to see her face in response to his query. She had gone pale and her needlework nearly slipped from the precipice of her skirt.
His frustration was undeniable.
“She was, wasn't she?” he pressed. “She was with him.”
“I do not have many more years on this earth, Mr. Marshall,” she answered deliberately, “I simply could not live the rest of them in peace if I were to betray her ladyship's confidence.” Violetta gathered her mistress's dress, stood and slipped past him. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly as she went.
Later that evening Ainsley found Margaret seated at her toilette table staring blankly into the mirrored glass as Julia finished her hair. Margaret had the look of someone lost to another world, neither hearing nor truly seeing the activity around her. Ainsley hovered at the door as Julia placed a final pin into Margaret's hair, gingerly patting the secured curls with an open hand.
“How is it, my lady?” Julia asked, coaxing acknowledgement from Margaret who refused to look up from the various bottles and jars on the table before her.
“Thank you, Julia,” Margaret said by rote rather than genuine appreciation.
Julia gave a quick curtsey and turned toward
the door where Ainsley stood, leaning against the door frame. Her eyes trained on the floor, Julia passed him.
Walking toward Margaret, Ainsley saw that her copious curls, pinned up from the neck with only a few tendrils cascading down, were dressed with silver ribbons twisted to look like rose buds. The effect was quite stunning against her deep, chestnut hair.
Margaret finally looked up into the mirror, recognizing her brother standing behind her. “Beautiful, isn't it?” she asked, turning her head side to side to look at the elegant effect the tiny roses had on her hair style. “Goodness I hate her,” she said with a scowl.
“Margaret,” Ainsley said with a wide smile, “Why would you say such a thing?” Ainsley found a seat on the edge of a chair at the foot of her bed. He took his place carefully, aware that his formal evening wear could easily be marred or wrinkled with any slight carelessness.
Margaret turned, throwing her arm over the back of the chair on which she sat. “Because she is so good. She can do everything and anything. I bet she goes to Whitechapel every Sunday afternoon to read to the orphans and brings them the crumbs from her week’s worth of dinners!”
“Margaret, you are being unfair.”
“Am I?” Margaret turned from him and grabbed for her silver, elbow length gloves laying flat on her toilette. “Yes, well what do you expect from someone so inferior as I? I mean really Peter, you'd think she was the princess of Norway the way you and Daniel fawn all over her.”
“Daniel and I?”
“Yes!” Margaret began pulling on her gloves, careful to pull each finger into the form fitting satin. “I have seen more of Daniel in the last two days than I have the entire previous year.”
It was worse than Ainsley had previously thought. He had never believed his brother capable of such philandering. His engagement party was hours away and he had been spending his time eyeing their family's newest maid.
Dead Silent Page 12
