Crawford’s shoulders sank as he stared at Ainsley.
“I will allow Sidney to shadow me if you hire Benjamin Catch, one of the boys from the orphanage.”
“To do what?” Crawford’s voice bellowed with protest. “Has he been a practising surgeon long?” Crawford asked, mocking Ainsley’s suggestion.
“We could train him as a porter,” Ainsley answered, immune to Crawford’s objection. “It’s either that or the boy goes to Canada as a farmhand. A fate worse than death, so I hear.”
Arms crossed over his chest, Crawford regarded Ainsley suspiciously. “What does it matter to you where this guttersnipe ends up?”
Ainsley took offence to Crawford’s use of the word “guttersnipe.” Almost all the children who ended up in their morgue could be classified as such. It was clear Crawford held little regard for the populace they were meant to serve.
Ainsley shrugged. “Those are my terms.” He turned to his tools, ensuring they were replaced in their proper spots. “Perhaps you should ask Sidney to pen the letter to your sister. It might give the boy a sense of responsibility for his own predicament.” Ainsley turned, satisfied everything was in order.
“So you’ve resorted to blackmail then?” Crawford asked.
“Extortion, actually.”
Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. Tell the boy he’s to be here no later than five a.m. I have no use for tardiness.”
“Tell your boy to keep his arrogance at home. I have no use for his ego.”
Crawford nodded, effectively agreeing to Ainsley’s terms. As if to seal the deal, Crawford offered his hand, which Ainsley shook forcibly. There was no telling if the head surgeon would renege on their deal. Ainsley would simply have to trust the man’s word and handshake.
When Crawford left, Ainsley leaned in on the examination table in front of him. Ainsley had been so concerned with getting a better deal for Benjamin he almost forgot he had agreed to spend time tutoring his least favoured person. He pounded his knuckles into the table.
“Damn it!”
It was late by the time Ainsley left the hospital. The darkened streets were made even darker by the mist that clung to the pavement and buildings. Ainsley felt the rain, like pinpricks, on his face as he walked into the wind. He knew he should head home but he wanted to let Benjamin know of his new position at the hospital and hoped the boy could start soon.
The rain turned to ice pellets and Ainsley arrived at the orphanage door, hunched against the cold, one gloved hand clutching his collar closed while the other knocked on the orphanage door. He knocked a second time, louder than the first, and finally someone opened the large door. A man stood on the other side, his face deep in a frown, his eyes squinting against the barrage of ice that flew at him from the street.
“Can I help you?” he asked, holding up a hand to shield his face.
Even in the dim light Ainsley recognized him as Mrs. Holliwell’s grown son, Elliot, the man Benjamin said bothered the girls at the orphanage and made all the children scared. Ainsley had no doubt Elliot would recognize him as Lady Charlotte Marshall’s son, as Mrs. Holliwell had, and so Ainsley knew he must introduce himself accordingly, though he had not yet figured out how he would describe his connection with the hospital where Benjamin had been hired to work.
“Mr. Peter Marshall,” Ainsley said, offering his free hand. “Lady Marshall’s second son.”
Elliot squinted against the barrage of ice and rain. “Peter?” A look of recognition came over his face and he ushered Ainsley in. “Quick, quick,” he said, his voice denoting some concern. “You must be frozen stiff.”
Once inside, Ainsley released his collar and removed his hat.
“Let me put these by the fire,” Elliot said, taking Ainsley’s coat, gloves, and hat. “We are not used to late-night visitors. We lock the doors before the supper hour. I was trying to recall if any of the older boys had not returned from their positions.” Elliot motioned with his arm for Ainsley to follow him down the dark hallway.
The building was quiet and near black. Ainsley realized Elliot must have been walking the hall from memory and Ainsley tried to keep up but his steps were less assured. “Mother told me you had stopped by the other day,” Elliot said from the darkness.
“Yes, I happened by a scene involving one of your charges.”
“And a detective,” Elliot interjected. “We’ve spoken with the lad. No further need to worry on that account.”
Finally, the man opened the door to a sitting room where light from a small fire illuminated the room. With the door opened, the light and warmth radiated into the hallway.
“Mother,” Elliot said. “Mr. Peter Marshall has come to pay a visit.”
Ainsley stepped into the room and saw Mrs. Holliwell seated in a high back chair near the fire, a small girl, perhaps no more than four years old, curled up in her arms. The orphanage matron stroked the girl’s hair as the child slept. “Mr. Marshall!” she explained in an animated whisper. She reached out her hand in greeting but dared not move. “My apologies, Mr. Marshall. I’d rise to shake your hand but I just managed to get her to sleep.”
Ainsley shook his head, dismissing her need to apologize. “Let her sleep.”
“She hasn’t been herself today,” Mrs. Holliwell said, glancing down to the child and pulling a strand of hair from her face.
“Is she severely ill?” Ainsley asked, his professional curiosity getting the better of him.
“No, no,” Mrs. Holliwell answered, smiling at his concern. “Nothing I have not nursed before.”
“Mother was supposed to come home this evening. It was her night off,” Elliot explained while standing beside Ainsley. “I found her here coaxing Louisa to sleep.”
Mrs. Holliwell pressed her lips together and gave her son a look of apology. “I simply cannot leave them,” she said. “There are others who help, Mr. Marshall, but I have taken these children on as my own.”
Elliot cleared his throat and gestured for an empty chair opposite his mother. When Ainsley took it, Elliot pulled a wooden chair that had been placed against the wall closer to the circle of light emitting from the fire.
“For what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Mrs. Holliwell asked, maintaining her quiet tone.
“I have come about Benjamin Catch,” Ainsley said, adjusting in his seat.
An audible sigh escaped Elliot. “What has the boy done now?” he asked, clearly annoyed.
“Why must you always be so disparaging?” Mrs. Holliwell asked her son. She turned to Ainsley. “Benjamin is a good boy, a bit troubled, but good.”
Ainsley saw Elliot’s jaw tighten, most likely embarrassed by his mother’s admonishment.
“So I have observed. The boy is clearly wanting more responsibility,” Ainsley said. “It’s why I spoke of him to a friend of mine at St. Thomas Hospital.”
“The hospital?” Mrs. Holliwell looked to her son.
“Ben has been selected to take Jonathon’s place as a farmhand to a Canadian family—”
“But I would hate to see him shipped off,” Ainsley stammered. “There are no advocates for them there.”
“Elliot assures me he is going to a good family,” Mrs. Holliwell said, her face betraying her worry for the child.
Elliot leaned back in his chair, his body language hard against any correction Ainsley might offer.
“I have no doubt,” Ainsley lied. “I only thought he should be given the option of work here in London, should he so choose.”
“What kind of work?” Elliot asked.
Ainsley turned to Elliot. “As a porter in the morgue.”
Mrs. Holliwell’s gasp caused the girl on her lap to stir before settling into sleep again.
Ainsley reached out a hand of reassurance. “Believe me, it is not as morbid as it sounds. Benjamin can stay here, where surroundings are familiar and he will learn a trade that will see him comfortable for the duration of his life.”
“And who shall pay for his boa
rd?” Elliot asked doubtfully. “Are we to carry his expense until he is old and grey?”
“Elliot, hush!”
“It is true, Mother. All these children cost money and you bring home more charity cases every day, faster than we can find homes for them.” Elliot’s voice grew animated with frustration. He turned to Ainsley and toned down his worry. “Benjamin’s assignment to the Dominion was to relieve some of the burden.”
“He would receive a wage and be able to assist the orphanage until he is able to acquire a room of his own,” Ainsley explained. He could tell Mrs. Holliwell was pleased with his plan. A light smile touched her lips but when her gaze drifted to her son it quickly vanished. Ainsley looked over and saw Elliot had become agitated.
“I cannot see how this differs all that much from our standard procedures,” he said sharply, bouncing his knee. “Why such a sudden interest in the foundlings, Mr. Marshall?”
Feeling the tension in the room rise, Ainsley leaned back in his chair in the hopes it would make him less intimidating. He had not anticipated such a reaction. Elliot was a naturally suspicious man, Ainsley could see as much, and not nearly as charitable as his mother was. The man was a bookkeeper, a person centered in facts and numbers but he also harboured supressed resentment and anger, which now he directed toward the children. It was clear Ainsley’s offer to help had made Elliot look miserly in front of his own mother, and that was something that bothered Elliot greatly.
“Elliot, please. Mr. Marshall is doing it in memory of his mother.” Mrs. Holliwell gave a gentle smile. “She spoke fondly of the physicians at St. Thomas. I do not doubt your motives, Mr. Marshall.” She shifted in her chair, scooping the child up in her arms somewhat awkwardly but the child made no indication that she was aware her bed was on the move.
Ainsley stood, offering with outstretched arms to take the heavy child from her.
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
Together, Ainsley and Mrs. Holliwell shifted the child’s weight until she was secured in his arms. Mrs. Holliwell straightened the ripples in her skirt and turned. “Follow me. I shall show you to the girl’s room.”
Again, Ainsley followed through the dark corridors, and then up a wide set of wooden stairs. The girl was so light, and almost curled into him as he walked. He need not have worried that she would slip from his grasp. Ahead of him, Mrs. Holliwell opened a door and a small aura of light escaped the room. She walked in ahead of him inciting whispers of joy from the other girls as she did so.
“Hush now,” Ainsley heard her command gently.
When Ainsley slipped passed the threshold, there was an audible gasp and then quiet murmurs. Mrs. Holliwell again begged the girls to quiet themselves and showed Ainsley to one of the beds. Bent over the metal-framed bed, Ainsley slipped the girl under the cold covers and then helped Mrs. Holliwell pull one of the blankets over the child. Gently, Ainsley placed a hand to the girl’s forehead, checking for fever. Satisfied she was in no danger, he turned and followed Mrs. Holliwell from the room.
“Good night, girls,” she said as she pulled the door closed. “No more stories.” A sheepish groan rose from the girls just as the door latched. “The older girls take turns telling the younger ones tales.”
“You have taught them to read?”
Mrs. Holliwell tilted her head to the side slightly and bit her lower lip. “When I can. It’s rudimentary at its best but it will do well enough once they enter service or other work.”
Service? Ainsley was reminded of his discovery about Julia. She had been raised here at this very orphanage, if the employment records were to be believed, and he did not doubt his father would have ensured precise accuracy in that regard.
They walked the hall, approaching the stairs, though their pace was slow.
“Mrs. Holliwell, do you recall a girl named Julia living here years ago?”
“Julia?” Mrs. Holliwell knitted her brow in an attempt to recollect the name.
“Julia Kemp. She’d be around my age, lovely girl with cinnamon-coloured hair. Gentle enough but somewhat of a fighter as well.”
Mrs. Holliwell smiled as they reached the stairwell. She grasped the railing and stopped, turning to Ainsley. He could just make out her features in the dim light that filtered in from the gas lamp outside the window.
“Lovely girl. She entered service at fourteen, I believe.”
“Do you know if she reunited with her mother at some point? Either while she lived here or afterward?”
“Mother? No, certainly not. Her mother passed many years ago when she was a child. That’s how she came to us.” Mrs. Holliwell shook her head and placed her free hand over her stomach. “Such a mournful child...” The headmistress’s voice trailed off and she began to tackle the stairs.
“Mournful in what way?” Ainsley pressed.
Mrs. Holliwell heaved a sigh and paused on the landing. “Mr. Marshall, I doubt she would want me to say. If you know her in some capacity might you not ask her yourself?”
Ainsley walked through the door of Marshall House, a much-needed refuge from the wet streets he had been traversing on his way home. Removing his coat, Ainsley caught a glimpse of Julia and when he turned he saw her asleep on the floor, her body slouched over a low table, a pen poised in mid-task, her page blotted with ink escaping the pen’s tip. He draped his coat over the bannister at the foot of the stairs, and quietly walked toward her. His intention was to wake her, save her a chill or stiffness that would surely plague her the next day were she left to sleep in such an awkward way, but as he crouched down beside her he hesitated.
He glanced to the paper held to the table by her hand and saw that she had been making notes of some of the auction items. Her handwriting was beautiful and her spelling flawless, a testament to Mrs. Holliwell’s tutelage. Ainsley would never have guessed Julia’s upbringing was so tumultuous had he not seen her employment record for himself. She was so cheerful and agreeable, it hardly seemed fair for Mrs. Holliwell to describe her as mournful. During her time with the Marshalls, Julia had only ever been loyal, accommodating, and fair. She worked hard, often taking up extra tasks that should have rightly been Violetta’s and yet she never complained, not that Ainsley was aware of. She even endured snide remarks and jeering from the other staff but never said a peep about that struggle to him or Margaret.
Julia was quickly taking her place in the Marshall household, and Ainsley could not deny the way he was drawn to her. It was not simply her beauty, he decided. There was something else entirely that bade him to protect her, to want her as his own.
He watched her sleep for a few moments, running thoughts through his mind, searching for meaning in these forbidden feelings. She was household staff, off limits in every way. In any other world, there’d be no such internal debate. He smiled to himself as he pulled the spilling pen from her loose grasp.
She stirred, startling somewhat when she saw him. “Mr. Marshall, I did not hear you come in,” she said, trying hard not to appear groggy.
Ainsley stood up and offered her his hand to help her to her feet.
Pressing her lips together, Julia avoided his stare as she climbed to her feet.
“Shall I fetch you some tea?” she asked.
“No,” he said, turning from her quickly to put the pen away. “I couldn’t leave you there. I’d not have caught a wink had I known you were sleeping on the cold floor.”
Julia bowed her head and pressed the creases from her skirt. “That is very kind.” She noticed his coat hung over the bannister. “I shall hang up your coat at least.” She moved to slip passed him, the only access to the bannister through a thin aisle between the auction items.
Ainsley should have stepped back and given her more room but he did not. A near magnetic force propelled him to stay in place as she brushed by, head low and gaze unsure. He could smell a hint of cinnamon in her hair and resisted the urge to draw closer.
Awkwardly, she stepped back, his damp coat draped over the crook of her arm. S
he turned as if to leave but hesitated. Ainsley watched as she opened her mouth, preparing to say something but stopping herself.
“What?” he asked, “What is it?”
Julia swallowed. “Only that you…”
Ainsley’s throat grew dry at the myriad of possibilities of what she would say next. If it was anything remotely like what he had been thinking he was sure he’d be the happiest of men for the rest of his days.
“You told Miss Margaret about the orphanage.” Her eyes glistened in the dim light as if readying to cry. However, she did not. Instead, she stood returning his stare, a quiet yet unmistakable challenge to a long-held belief that servants were merely chattel, nothing more. It was clear she had wanted him to respect her privacy as she had done for every member of the Marshall family during her brief but tumultuous employment.
“I… I—” Ainsley struggled for something to say.
“It is a time in my life that I do not wish to dwell on,” Julia explained. “Mrs. Holliwell is like a mother to me and I will always love her for that but those years were not my happiest.”
“I understand.”
“I doubt you do,” Julia charged, the tears spilling over onto the crest of her cheeks. “I applaud Miss Margaret for her work with the auction but you must know how hard it is for me to hear her friends speak of orphans as...” Her voice stopped, as if unwilling to say the words aloud. “I have been trying to keep these feelings to myself. I never wished to burden her with my woes.” Her free hand went to her face to wipe the tears and it took all of Ainsley’s strength not to step forward to help her. “I know you are my employer and my personal information is yours to do as you wish but I cannot help but feel betrayed by you.”
“Betrayed?” Ainsley could hardly believe the words he was hearing. “It wasn’t a secret. Everyone knew, everyone accept Margaret and myself. I had to hear it from the kitchen staff before I ever thought to look at Father’s files.”
Julia opened her mouth to protest, her lips tightened in anger, but she stopped herself.
The Dead Among Us Page 12
