Ainsley passed them, their conversation falling into obscurity. His father was laughing at wife’s antics, showing little concern; no doubt he had become an expert at such manoeuvres over the years.
At the door Margaret placed Lady Marshall's cape on her shoulders before allowing the butler to help her with her own. Outside soft wisps of snow drifted slowly in the blue night sky covering the family's carriage, the backs of the team of horses and the tops of the groom's hat.
“There's no need to leave,” Lady Marshall protested as Ainsley led her down the few steps to the gravel drive. “We haven't made a toast.”
“It is late,” Ainsley lied, “You are overtired.”
Lady Marshall pulled away from him and staggered back, unable to place her entire weight on her ankle. Ainsley grabbed for her but she fell backward and landed in the dusting of snow.
“Peter!” she screamed from the ground. “You dropped me!”
In an attempt to control his anger, Ainsley turned, running his hands through his hair. He walked to the front of the carriage, looking over the sleek, snow-covered backs of the horses as he paced.
“Peter!” Lady Marshall's screech was louder than before and held more of a shrill.
“Mother!” Margaret hissed. Ainsley saw his sister looking behind them to the darkened windows of the Weatherall's manor where the silhouettes of the guests could be seen against the lights inside. Clenching his jaw Ainsley walked back to where his mother was crouched on the ground to offer a hand though he had little interest in playing into her shenanigans.
“Mother,” he said, crouching down in front of her. Keeping his gaze square with hers he spoke in a low, commanding tone. “You are going to let me help you up and then you will get into this carriage. If you don't I will hoist you over my shoulder and throw you in, am I clear?”
Obviously stunned by her son's brutish threat, Lady Marshall nodded sheepishly and accepted his hand.
Ainsley positioned himself beside her in the carriage, strategically placing himself between his mother and the door. Margaret sat across from them and not long after Lord Marshall and Daniel filed in.
Ainsley watched as his father sneered at his wife, an unmistakable look of contempt for the woman who seemed hell bent on ruining the small measure of respectability the Marshall name still held. At one time Ainsley would have felt sorry for her, but he couldn't any longer. Any childish delusions he once held were long gone, replaced with his own feelings of scorn and anguish.
Everyone settled into an uncomfortable silence as the carriage jerked into motion. In the intermittent light of the gas lamps Ainsley could see his father's jaw clenched, his mouth pinched into a scowl. Lord Marshall's elbow was resting on the slim ledge of the window, his hand drawn to just in front of his mouth, quietly pensive.
When Daniel finally spoke, his voice echoed the anger evident in all of them. “Good god Mother,” he said, letting out a breath. “I have never been so embarrassed. I will be lucky if the Weatherall's don't call off the entire wedding.”
“Perhaps we should,” Lady Marshall said with a slight slur.
“I am sorry you don't approve,” Daniel said with abject disgust.
“I was never consulted!”
“You were hardly available, Mother,” Margaret said softly.
“Your opinion has no bearing,” Daniel's voice bellowed in the small space, “I'll be damned if my wife ends up like you!”
Lady Marshall closed her eyes and turned away.
“We've heard enough,” Lord Marshall said finally, turning toward his arguing wife and son. “We will talk about it in the morning.”
Even in the dim light Ainsley could see his brother shaking his head, refusing their father's command for silence. “No,” he said, with a marked determination, “She can not expect us to play along, pretending nothing happened.” His stare burned at their mother, narrow and concentrated, and would not relent even when she looked away. “Where were you Mother?” Daniel asked coldly.
Her face fell, her gaze dropping to the tiny folds of her gloves. She bore the look of someone sober enough to know what Daniel asked and it seemed all her former vigour to keep the act had slipped away. Suddenly she looked scared, lost in a maze of confusion and fear. She looked to Ainsley then, perhaps seeking a less hardened face amongst those who had reason to despise her.
“I don't know,” she said softly, giving a slight shake of her head. She laid a gloved hand on Ainsley's. “I don't remember.”
Daniel was out of his seat and at their mother, hand clasped tightly at her throat, his face inches from her own. “You little bitch!” he spat. A vein on his hand protruded, pulsing even under the pressure of his vice-like grip.
Chapter 17
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
From his seat, Ainsley pushed him off, driving his fist into his brother's jaw sending him back into his carriage seat. Even though he boxed, Ainsley was not used to the feeling of his knuckles hitting another man's skin and almost as soon as he had done it he could feel the heat rise in his hand, the swelling had begun but in no way did Ainsley regret it.
“Touch her again and I will kill you!” Ainsley yelled with a pointed finger. He placed a protective arm in front of his mother. “And if I ever hear of you laying a hand on Evelyn, or any other woman on this earth, I will come after you.”
From his seat, Daniel snorted and turned away, licking the blood from the corner of his mouth with his tongue. Ainsley turned to his mother and saw her hand at her throat. With his doctor's eye, he examined her neck and could already see a bruise forming where Daniel's hand had been.
“Can you breathe?” he asked.
His mother nodded and gave a slight gasp, more so out of shock than injury Ainsley hoped. A few moments later the carriage stopped and Ainsley opened the door and positioned the folding steps for Lady Marshall, not bothering to wait for the groom to descend from his perch. The first to enter their home, Ainsley guided his mother toward the stairs and as they climbed he could hear the other family members walking in the door.
“Still hiding under Mommy's skirts, I see!” Daniel's voice echoed through much of the house. At the top of the stairs Ainsley ventured to look down at the foyer where Billis was accepting Lord Marshall's coat and hat. Daniel stared up at them without a hint of regret for his attack on their mother and Margaret looked uneasy.
Ainsley led his mother to her room, ordering Violetta to bring tea in as much of an even tone as he could muster. With the lady's maid out of the room Ainsley went to his mother, who had taken a seat in her settee before a small fire.
“Let me see,” he said, drawing closer.
Lady Marshall swallowed and raised her chin as he crouched down. She was red and slightly purple though it was hard to tell in the firelight. After removing her gloves Lady Marshall reached to the back of her neck and fumbled with the clasp of her necklace, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Ainsley stood, offering to do it for her. With it finally removed he saw small scratches on her throat and his heart sank as his hands threatened to curl into fists.
“Damn it!” He turned, tossing a small pedestal mirror from his mother's mantel. The glass shattered on the floor before he realized what he had done.
“I'm sorry,” he said instantly.
His mother smiled and gave a slight shrug. “I never liked it that much anyway.”
Ainsley began to gather the pieces, throwing them in the empty bucket next to the fire meant for the ash. His brother was a brute and needed a good fight, from a real threat, to put him in his place. Ainsley traced his hand over his forehead, wiping sweat from his brow as he forced himself to become calm.
“He is angry,” Lady Marshall said in a tone denoting a certain amount of resignation.
“I'll show him some real anger.”
His mother simply shook her head. “Peter, please. He has a right to be angry.”
Ainsley shook his head and knelt before her. “Mother, I don'
t care what you did or where you were. All I care about is that you are home and...” he stumbled, “well. You are well, aren't you?”
“What ever do you mean?” She placed a cupped hand to his cheek. The inebriated, sullen, ungraceful woman he had helped navigate the stairs earlier was gone, replaced by the mother he could clearly recognize from his youth. Suddenly he felt fourteen again, defending her against everyone who did not understand her unconventional ways or permit her expression of ideas. He was determined to guard her though he felt completely helpless to save her at the same time.
“I know about the laudanum,” he said. He began searching her face, determined to decipher each muscle movement as she looked at him.
“Peter,” she sighed, turning her gaze from him. “I have far greater problems than that, my dear.”
“I found a bottle,” Ainsley said, “Margaret and I found it in this room. It was empty.”
She avoided his eyes though she looked uneasy and overburdened.
“Tell me,” Ainsley begged. “Tell me and I can help you.”
She smiled, but shook her head. “Oh Peter, no one can help me now.”
There was a knock on the door and Violetta slipped in, a tea tray in her grasp. Ainsley stood, pulling away from his mother and returning to the broken mirror that needed his attention.
“Can we talk about this in the morning?” Lady Marshall asked. “I'd like to take a bath.” She nodded to Violetta, who dropped a quick curtsey and left. Ainsley wanted to protest knowing the physical requirement it demanded of Violetta but he stopped himself. The warm water may do his mother well for both her neck and her ankle, besides, she needed some time alone and so did he.
Chapter 18
Hark! death is calling
Margaret was waiting for her brother in the family's private library unable to shake the thought of her mother rooting through Evelyn's belongings. A swift shiver trailed up Margaret's spine and pulling her blanket tighter to her body did little to stave off the intrusive cold. She had already changed from her gown, preferring her nightdress and house coat. Regrettably she had pulled the pins from her hair but had been careful to save each silver rose with the intent to make an arrangement in the morning.
Such frivolous indulgences would have to wait. Much weightier matters demanded the majority of her thought making her incapable of doing anything more than stare at the fire from her curled position in the cushioned chair. She did, however, turn the evening over and over in her mind. The way her mother needed Peter's assistance down the stairs before they left for the ball. The cool detachment with which her mother regarded her husband. And worst of all her loud and very public admittance to trespassing in a room that was out of bounds to her.
Margaret sighed involuntarily, hugged her blanket closer and pressed her lips together lest she yell out some profanity into the dark night air. She had no illusions as Peter had. He defended her blindly but Margaret was the one who was with Mother during the last many years while he was away apprenticing. While he was gone she had been the one to guide Mother’s drunken body back to her room at night. She had made excuses for her absence when people called. She often shrugged off her mother's strange behaviour with a laugh and some fun but there could be no jokes of late.
She had caught her mother with her lover just a few weeks ago and the image would be forever burned into her memory. Try as she might, Margaret had to concede that the remembrance could not be banished. But now, after being gone nearly a week, Lady Marshall had done the unspeakable and spoken out against her future daughter-in-law. She was found to be publicly drunk and worse still, trespassing in the Weatherall family's personal rooms. There could be no greater disgrace save for divorce.
Divorce.
Margaret could cry at the word. Could her parent’s separation be anymore damning to her future marriage prospects than her mother's unforgivable behaviour already was? She licked her lips, pulling at them with her teeth. Perhaps she could be free of a match in society. Such a development would open the door for Jonas, if he would still have her.
“You smile.”
Margaret started and turned to see Ainsley standing over her, amused by her absentminded smirk.
“Do not let me disturb your enjoyment,” he said teasingly. He made no motion to leave, fully expecting her to apologize and insist he stay.
“Tis nothing,” she said with a slight shake of her head and a nervous laugh.
Ainsley rounded the end of the couch and took a seat near Margaret's feet that were curled up almost beneath her, the blanket hiding her bare skin. She watched as he slipped into the cushions easily, resting his arm on the back of the couch and positioning himself so he could look at her as they talked.
“That was quite a show, was it not?” he asked, letting a long breath escape as he spoke.
“It may have been more humorous were it just a show,” Margaret offered. “Are you not scared Peter, of the effect this will have on our futures?”
“In truth, no,” he said, “I do not fear for myself. I have already chosen an unorthodox path. I admit, however, I am fearful for you.”
“Do not bother to be fearful for me,” she said, allowing a full smile. “I may well end up taking an unorthodox path as well.”
“Then so be it. Let Daniel be good. He's the heir in any case. You and I can do as we choose.” He clasped a hand on her leg, squeezing it slightly while smiling teasingly.
“Do you mean it, Peter? I can do as I please?”
She saw his smile fade, reality being very different from the playful fantasies of free choice and unbridled futures. He did not have to say the words for she knew by the look on his face that he had been playing and hadn't meant a word of it.
They fell silent, the crackling of the dying fire the only sound in the entire house, or so it felt.
“I don't know what our future holds,” Ainsley said at last. “Though I am sure Father will have much to say about it in the morning.”
Ainsley lifted from his seat, and leaned over Margaret to plant a kiss on her forehead. He squeezed her shoulder as he passed the edge of the couch.
Margaret startled awake, her forehead bouncing off the wooden trim of the couch. Raising a hand to her pulsing temple she realized she had fallen asleep some time after her brother had left her. The fire had burned down to mere embers, glowing and receding in unison as a draft waxed and waned. Margaret rubbed her eyes, forcing them to focus but finding it difficult against the near blackness of the room.
One of the servants, Billis at least, should have woken her and escorted her to bed. They would have checked the fires in all the rooms before retiring. They would not leave her there, she thought, surveying the facts. It must have been well after midnight. She could tell by the slight presence of blue in the darkness beyond the window. A full moon was hovering over the cold, frost encrusted city and Margaret realized she had been asleep on the couch for only a short time.
Uncoiling her legs from beneath her, she wrapped the blanket tighter around her body and slid from the couch. With all the grace of a four-year-old assigned to the task, Margaret banked the coals of the fire until they scarcely shone. Then she moved for the door as gingerly as possible so she did not injure a toe or series of toes while going forward in the dark.
Swinging open the library door, she heard movement on the storey above her, it sounded like sliding across the wooden floor with a slight drag. Her mother's rooms were just above the library but Margaret doubted she would still be awake. She imagined the alcohol, and perhaps even the laudanum, had taken their toll putting Lady Marshall into a deep, comatose-like sleep. Pausing in the hall Margaret listened, expecting to hear nothing but after a moment her wait was rewarded and she heard foot falls on the boards above.
At the bottom of the foyer stairs Margaret heard a door being closed, slowly and carefully as if the person closing it did not want to disturb the others already asleep. Margaret herself would not have heard it were it not for the latch catchi
ng with a distinct iron pang. Halfway up the stairs Margaret saw a shadowy figure passing in front of her on the landing. Shrouded in darkness Margaret had no idea who it was but she realized the person had just exited her mother's rooms.
“Mother?”
The sound of the steps did not quicken, they paused momentarily before resuming their steady pace down the long hall. Straining against the darkness Margaret scurried up the remaining stairs and looked down the corridor seeing nothing but the slightest movement of the curtain next to the window.
Ainsley's room was down at that end of the hall but Margaret knew he had retreated to his bed long ago. Daniel might be sleeping in his old room, as yet unchanged since he purchased his new home, and that room was further down that hall as well. Lord Marshall also kept a room down there, preferring the morning light to wake him than any clock or servant. Only Margaret and her mother kept rooms on the opposite side of the landing, the other two rooms reserved for special guests or visiting family. Another floor of guest rooms existed above them with only Billis having a sizable room to himself on that floor, since those guest rooms were so rarely used, and then the female servants’ rooms in the attic only accessed by a narrow, winding passageway hidden behind a false wall at the end of the hall. Once a fireplace and chimney the rickety stairs became a joke to the Marshall family who could always hear when someone was either walking up or down them despite the visual illusion of stealth.
A sliver of light could be seen beneath her mother's door. A lamp, Margaret guessed, or a small fire. And then she remembered the hour. It seemed impossible for her mother to be awake. Margaret crept for the door, leaning her ear toward it to listen for movement. There was nothing. No humming, shifting of sheets or creaking of floorboards. Margaret turned the brass doorknob and slipped through the dim sitting room. Intending to turn off the lamp, or bank the fire, Margaret crept into the bed chamber expecting to see her mother in bed, asleep.
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