The Dead Among Us

by Tracy L. Ward

  Ainsley could see Sidney was barely able to open his left eye and he wondered how much longer the kid would hold out before conceding defeat. Ainsley shrugged. “Face it, kid,” he said, matching the boy’s arrogance, “you didn’t stand a chance.”

  Sidney stood, fists raised in a defensive posture. Ainsley stood back another second, surveying his options. He could back out, save the boy the embarrassment or continue no doubt knocking the kid out with a handful of blows.

  His opponent answered his question for him and charged sloppily. With a swift upper cut to the jaw, Sidney fell back, landing harshly on the ground.

  Jerry, the proprietor and Ainsley’s first coach, slid into the ring, signalling the end. After checking on Sidney, Jerry raised Ainsley’s arm in the air in triumph. Unable to take his eyes from Sidney, Ainsley’s win was bittersweet. He did not win many fights but the regret he felt for accepting such a mismatched pairing sucked away all the happiness he should have felt for his victory. He should have backed out. He should have accepted the disgrace and saved himself the stigma of beating an untrained man on his first time out.

  Jonas rushed the ring, but did not go to Ainsley. Instead, he slid beside Sidney and placed an ear to his mouth. Panic rose in Ainsley’s chest, stopping at his throat. Staring at the kid’s chest, Ainsley waited, unable to move, hoping he had not killed him.

  “He’s breathing,” Jonas said after what felt like a decade.

  Ainsley rushed to the opposite side of Jonas, his medical instinct kicking in.

  “Crawford will never forgive you,” Jonas said, as he pulled back Sidney’s eyelids.

  “Crawford?”

  Jonas looked up. “Sidney’s his nephew.”

  Chapter 5

  Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels,

  Sidney opened his eyes, one slightly more than the other, but it was enough to allow Ainsley to breathe again. “Oh, thank God,” he said.

  Together, Jonas and Ainsley lifted the man to his feet and quickly but gingerly took him out of the ring. The crowd was anxious for another bout and lollygaggers were never tolerated. Each with one of Sidney’s arm around them to hold him upright, Jonas and Ainsley pulled him through the crowd to a chair placed against the wall.

  Sidney fell into the chair easily and would have slumped over completely had Jonas not placed his hand squarely on the man’s chest. Ainsley slapped at the side of Sidney’s face in an effort to coax him awake. “Sidney. Sidney.”

  “Rematch,” Sidney mumbled through a fat lip. He looked Ainsley in the eye and tried to raise a pointed finger. “Rematch,” he said again with more determination.

  “Sure thing, kid,” Ainsley said.

  Jonas left and returned with Ainsley’s and Sidney’s discarded clothing. With all the grace of a nappy changing, Jonas and Ainsley forced Sidney back into his clothes before Ainsley hastily dressed in his own.

  “Damn it, Peter,” Jonas said, buttoning Sidney’s shirt. “I told you not to fight him.”

  “You didn’t tell me he was related to my boss,” Ainsley hissed. “I could have killed him I was so angry with him. He as much as said he was a better surgeon than me.”

  “That may be but we will never know if you break his arm.”

  “I should have broken his arm,” Ainsley answered hotly. “That will teach him to be so arrogant.”

  Jonas broke out in boisterous laughter. “Says the pot to the kettle.”

  Ainsley just shook his head, his friend fraying his last nerve.

  “Come now,” Jonas said, hoisting Sidney to his feet, “Let’s get him home.”

  An hour later and Ainsley himself made his way home. He pushed open the front door and was met by no one. Gone were the days when the family butler would meet him at the door and ask about his work at the hospital. Lord Marshall had not hired anyone nor had he promoted any of the lower staff to a higher rank. It seemed to be his opinion, as it was Ainsley’s, that no one could replace Billis. A lump found its way into Ainsley’s throat, as it did every time he was reminded of what had been. Even though months had passed, the pain remained raw, the only relief found at the bottom of a bottle.

  Ainsley hung his coat while listening to the beat of the house. He still lived with his father and sister in Belgravia. With his mother gone and his brother making a home with his new wife in Mayfair, the house seemed starved. Though the house had never been a joyously happy one, Ainsley’s father and mother seeing no need for co-habitation, it was far less bleak than it had become since Lady Marshall’s passing. There was a time when Ainsley thought things could not get worse and now he would give anything for those days to return.

  He climbed the double staircase to the second floor, wincing slightly at the pain in his arm, either from a blow dealt or received. He heard Margaret’s voice behind the closed door to her room and was surprised to find her awake. Gently, he pushed open her door to see Margaret and Julia, her maid and newly realized companion, conversing with great merriment. Seated on the end of her bed, Margaret still wore her mourning frock but Julia was dressed in one of Margaret’s touring dresses. She giggled happily at her image in the mirror, unaware of Ainsley’s presence.

  Ainsley could not help but smile at the innocence of it.

  Julia’s free laughter came to a halt when her eyes raised and met Ainsley’s through the looking glass. Margaret turned and gasped. “Peter, what happened to you?” She jumped up and went straight for him, her hand outstretched as if to touch his face. That is when Ainsley realized he must have been a horrid sight.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. He tried to prevent Margaret from touching him but his movement lacked conviction and she was allowed to draw in close, surveying his bruises and running her finger over his brow.

  “You’re bleeding, sir,” Julia said meekly from many paces back.

  “My brother has a rather odd idea of sport,” Margaret said, her face turning from concern to frustration. She pinched her lips together. “Nothing short of brutal.”

  Ainsley grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from his wounds, wincing at the stings that expanded through his face.

  “And your shirt?” Margaret pulled at the collar of his shirt, revealing a smear of blood he had not realized was there. “Off with you,” Margaret scolded. “I can’t imagine the sight you must have been to any driver,” she said as she pushed him down the hall to his room.

  Too tired to argue, Ainsley did as he was told and even sat in the chair next to his lamp as his sister bid, practically falling into the chair with exhaustion.

  “Getting rather friendly with the help, are we?” Ainsley asked, indicating Julia, who must have stayed back in Margaret’s room to change into her regular maid’s uniform.

  “Do not attempt to change to subject.” After lighting the gas lamp, Margaret stood over him, hands on hip, and glowered.

  “Why not?” Ainsley teased, “It’s as valid a subject as any other. You both seem rather friendly considering not many months ago you despised the woman.” Ainsley poked at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, suddenly aware of a cut on the inside of his mouth.

  “This winter has been a rather lonely one,” Margaret explained. “She keeps me in rather good company.”

  “I can’t imagine Father supports such a kinship,” Ainsley said.

  “Father cares little of what I do,” Margaret answered, her tone markedly low.

  Ainsley raised an eyebrow.

  “He leaves for Barbados in the morrow,” she said. “Apparently, he will be gone for some time.”

  Ainsley nodded and then smiled. “So you and I have the house all to ourselves.” He stood, and turned to look at his image in the mirror. “Think of all the mischief we could get into.”

  “I have no desire for mischief,” Margaret answered.

  “How dull you have become,” Ainsley answered. He looked over the cut on his brow, and saw that it had reopened and was bleeding fresh blood onto the already dry bits clinging to his
brow hairs. “You and I should—” He turned and found the room empty.

  Within a second, Julia walked through his door, a towel over her bent arm and a pitcher of water in her grasp. She had changed into her maid’s uniform, but Ainsley had a hard time forgetting the look of merriment on her face when she was wearing Margaret’s dress.

  “We should see to that cut,” she said.

  Ainsley nodded, too tired and in too much pain to argue.

  Julia filled his washbasin with water from the pitcher and slipped the towel from the same table. She approached him with a wet corner of the towel. She gestured for the chair and Ainsley obeyed.

  She held his chin, lifting his face toward her as she dabbed the dried blood. “You may need stitches,” she said quietly.

  Ainsley chuckled. “I don’t mind my scars.”

  “You have many, I hear,” she said before suddenly looking down to his eyes. “You box?”

  “Yes,” Ainsley answered. “Do you know the sport?”

  A slight smile touched her lips. “My brother boxed.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s in heaven now,” she said quickly.

  “Oh.”

  “Not from injuries in the ring,” she explained. Her face fell, though she tried to remain focused on her task. “Other causes.”

  They were quiet for some time. Julia worked at loosening the blood from his brow while Ainsley tried to ignore the warmth of her hand on his cheek.

  “Do you want me to fetch some ice from the cellar?” she said, “Your eye will be black as crows by morning.” She stepped back a pace and looked over him, pressing her lips together tightly and trying to avoid his direct gaze while he held the towel to his cut.

  He had to admit she was a remarkable woman. Fetching and slim, though not too slim, she possessed a strength that he highly admired in women, and she had proven herself loyal in the last few months that she had worked for the Marshall family. From the first day, when his brother, Daniel, had made disgraceful remarks to her, Ainsley felt a protectiveness toward her that he had only ever felt for his sister and mother before.

  When she lowered her hand Ainsley caught her wrist, preventing her from leaving. She did not struggle, though. Instead, she stood over him, returning his gaze with wide eyes and soft features.

  “Thank you,” he said, using a softer tone than he would have normally.

  Julia nodded and he released her slowly. She took her arm back and turned, exiting the room. When she was gone, Ainsley raked his hand through his hair and stood, exhaling deeply. Were she any other woman he would have had her long before then. Never afraid to woo a woman, flirt, and tell her what she wanted to hear, Ainsley found it hard to behave so brazenly with Julia. She deserved more than such vile treatment. She deserved more than the womanizer Ainsley knew himself to be.

  Almost as soon as Ainsley dressed in the morning he was summoned to his father’s room. A steamer trunk waited in the hall just outside his door and a valise sat on top. Lord Marshall stood at his mirror while Cutter clumsily coaxed his jacket on. Ill-amused, Lord Marshall waved his valet away. “That’s enough,” he said. “Take my trunk down to the carriage and have Jacob wait for me at the door.”

  Cutter bowed and left, slipping past Ainsley, who stood just in the doorway.

  “You wished to see me,” Ainsley asked, bracing himself for contentious discord. He believed his father incapable of reasonable conversations.

  “Yes,” Lord Marshall answered as he buttoned his jacket. “I will be gone for some time,” he began. “I’ve already spoken with Daniel and Margaret. Daniel will be seeing to my business and affairs of The House while I am gone,” he explained, alluding to his work with the House of Lords. “I need you to hire a new butler.”

  “I haven’t the faintest clue how to hire a butler,” Ainsley answered honestly. He knew his father to be particular and dreaded putting himself in a position where his father could be disappointed in him. “Perhaps Cutter could fill the position and we can search for a new valet.”

  Lord Marshall shook his head. “Cutter is an imbecile,” he said loudly, obviously not concerned if any of the servants heard him. He walked the breadth of the room and pulled his beaver top hat and gloves from his table. “I need you to do this for me,” Lord Marshall explained earnestly. “Can I count on you?”

  “Father, I…”

  “What is it?” Lord Marshall asked as he put on his hat.

  “I had thought it time to look for a home of my own,” Ainsley explained. “Soon.”

  Lord Marshall snorted. “You plan to snub the entirety of your inheritance?”

  “No.” Ainsley shifted uncomfortably. He despised his family’s money. He had never felt at home amongst the wealthy, London elite. He had learned to manoeuver the parties and gatherings well but he could never truly be comfortable in such circles. But he knew he could not remove himself from the family, though he had threatened to do so many times in his youth. Shortly after his mother’s death he found out Daniel was not Lord Marshall’s son. Despite all of Daniel’s interest in the Marshall fortune and business holdings, he was not true Marshall blood.

  “You are my son,” Lord Marshall said lowering his voice, “and I need you here to look after your sister and our family interests.” He placed his hands on Ainsley’s shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. “Can I count on you, at least until I return?”

  Ainsley nodded. The timing was not right. He much preferred if Margaret were wed and well cared for than leave her alone with the father neither of them knew well. Their family had experienced too much upset to add more fuel to the fire. He would stay on, and keep an eye on his sister, but hiring a new butler was the task he least looked forward to.

  “I’ll miss my train,” Lord Marshall said, making his way to the door.

  “Anything else you need to say before you go, Father?”

  Lord Marshall turned, and searched the walls of the room as if they held the answer to Ainsley’s question. “No.” He turned and walked out into the hall.

  Chapter 6

  They press and pierce:

  Margaret walked down the church aisle on the left, as she had done for a number of Sundays, and took her usual seat to the side of the pulpit. Once settled, pressing down the ruffles in her skirt and crossing her ankles, Margaret stared straight ahead, her worn leather Bible held securely in her gloved hands. She could not cry, so much of her energy spent in the tears shed in the carriage. Instead, she waited patiently, wanting desperately to look around to see if he had come. But she dared not.

  Eventually a tall form entered the pew from the same aisle she had traversed, though she dared not look. Jonas shuffled a few steps and carefully took his seat next to her. Still Margaret did not look. Sucking in air, her shoulders relaxed and she closed her eyes.

  “Were you afraid I would not come?” he whispered, his lips close enough to her ear she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lobes.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I knew you would come, like always.”

  He reached for her hand, which she had placed daintily on her knees, and pulled it toward him. Through her gloves she could feel his radiating warmth and her heart quickened.

  This same vignette had played out Sunday after Sunday for many weeks since her mother had passed. Never more and never less. They would take their places side by side in the little obscure church, saying nothing but a promise to meet again the following Sunday.

  Once the service ended the congregation thinned. Margaret and Jonas sat for a while, heads bowed toward each other, the air that surrounded them filled with words left unsaid. Margaret could not cypher the meaning of their weekly rendezvous. There was no understanding between them. She held hope that one day they would not be forced to meet so secretly, that Jonas would be welcome at her family’s home, to dine with them and have a cigar with her father and brothers. She wondered if such mental images were merely self-inflicted torture. No such future existed f
or them. Ainsley himself had all but forbid their pairing, citing Jonas’s penchant for gambling and his spotty reputation. Margaret had little doubt her father would feel the same. Jonas was not high-born. He was a surgeon, a rogue, and not at all worthy of her hand. It was that line of thinking that forced her to meet him in secret because the alternative of not seeing him at all was too much to bear.

  “May I walk you as far as the bridge?” Jonas asked.

  Margaret glanced around them to find all the pews empty and the rector gone. She nodded at his suggestion, secretly wondering if stepping out together was ill-advised. They had never done so before.

  Jonas offered a steady hand as Margaret slipped from the pew. They proceeded down the aisle, Margaret smiling nervously as she matched Jonas’s steps. The double doors to the front of the church were propped open, the grey light contrasting heavily with the dark church, which forced Margaret to squint as they approached.

  They walked the path to the north of the church, its fringes lined with greenery that hung low over the walkway. Margaret ducked her head and held fast to her hat so the branches would not loosen her hair.

  “I plan to speak to your father,” Jonas said suddenly, as if unable to hold back another moment.

  Shocked, Margaret could not find the strength to look at him.

  “It’s time we were out in the open,” he said. “We shouldn’t have to skulk around in neighbourhoods in which no one would recognize us.”

  She could sense him looking at her, perhaps praying for any sign of encouragement.

  “Father has left for Barbados,” she said, “We have a tobacco plantation there.”

  “He’s left?”

  Margaret nodded, and was surprised to find herself thankful for her father’s absence. “I do not think we should be so hasty,” she said, finding her throat quickly becoming dry as she spoke.

  “Hasty? Margaret it’s been many months, and years before that when…” Margaret looked to him but his voice trailed off and he turned his eyes forward. “You believe he will deny my request to court you openly,” Jonas said, his words speaking her thoughts aloud. “Has he said anything to you?” Jonas asked.