Ainsley smiled, and was glad for the near darkness that hid his amusement.
“Don’t be cheeky,” Maxwell snapped, “certainly not in front of His Lordship and his son.”
Ainsley watched as Julia’s light expression evaporated.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said quickly.
No one in the house knew how close Julia and Ainsley were. His sister, Margaret, had guessed not long ago that they were involved, but Ainsley was sure she did not know to what extent. Julia and he had spent many months hiding passionate kisses and meeting late at night for moonlight trysts. He found himself longing to be with her when the harsh reality of his life overwhelmed him. She was his light amongst the dark.
“It’s all right, Maxwell. Everyone is just tired,” Ainsley said. “You should both return to bed. There will be plenty to do in the morning.”
Julia gave Ainsley a mournful nod and retreated back into the darkened hall. Maxwell, however, lingered a moment more before finally agreeing to Ainsley’s order. “If you need anything, sir, I can be summoned easily.”
“Promise me you will sleep,” Ainsley said, slipping into the chair beside his father’s bed.
Maxwell bowed, which looked far less dignified in a nightcap and night-robe than it did while he was in a pressed uniform, before quitting the room.
Ainsley offered his father a soft smile. “You see? They squabble when you are not well. All the more reason to get you back on your feet.” He squeezed his father’s hand before settling back into the chair and opening the book to where they had left off.
There hadn’t always been an affinity between them. There was a time when Ainsley would have held no sympathy for the man. A brutal father with exacting standards, Lord Marshall had ruled his family and his fortune with regimentation. Father and son hardly ever saw eye to eye, a reality that had kept them apart for years. As the second son, Ainsley was pleased to allow his older brother, Daniel, to sidle up to their father, as he was the one destined to be head of the family and purveyor of the family purse.
Ainsley himself had no interest in such a fate and chose to attend an unorthodox university instead against his father’s wishes. In fact, his pursuit of meaningful work in medicine caused such an uproar that Ainsley agreed to use his mother’s maiden name throughout his studies so as not to tarnish their status amongst the peerage. Lord Marshall had never been pleased with the arrangement, but now that he could only form a few words at most, his protests had died off considerably. Their present circumstances did nothing to dissolve Ainsley’s guilt, however. Daily he wrestled with the idea of leaving his chosen profession, if only to be more available to his sister, Margaret, who struggled with their father’s needs for care.
Ainsley was jolted from sleep and found himself still in the chair next to his father’s bed, the book laying open and face down on his chest as the morning sun streamed in through a slit in the long, heavy drapes. He rubbed his eyes and focused his gaze on his father, who slept soundly in the middle of his bed, undisturbed since the late-night commotion.
Just as he walked out the door to the hall, Margaret appeared. Her eyes barely lifted from the carpet as she hugged a small mound of folded blankets to her chest.
“Good morning, brother,” she said.
When their eyes met Ainsley saw how dark and swollen they had become. Her bountiful brown curls were usually arranged neatly but lately she looked as if she had styled it in a rush, allowing the pins to become loose. That day she looked worse than the ones before. Her entire demeanour had changed since their father had returned home from his trip. No longer was she willing to joke with Ainsley and, as the days progressed, she seemed less and less interested in anything beyond their home.
She tried to slip by him, but he stopped her by placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“He’s sleeping,” he said quietly.
Margaret turned slightly to release her shoulder and continued to head into their father’s room. Ainsley turned in place and watched from the door as she circled the bed, all the while looking at her father, who slept soundly.
“We really should get someone to help you,” he suggested, careful to keep his voice low. “You cannot keep such vigils all on your own.”
Margaret’s eyes lifted. “I can manage.”
Ainsley slipped both his hands into his pockets. He hated to see her this way. It was not her usual self at all. They all had taken a vested interest in their patriarch, but Margaret seemed obsessed with his care. She was reluctant to let anyone else see to him, even the staff who had catered to his whims for many years.
“Have a good day at the hospital, Peter,” she said.
Ainsley watched as she turned and placed the folded blankets on the seat near the window. She kept her back to him for many minutes, a signal that she would say no more.
Ainsley found himself nodding as he walked toward his room at the end of the hall. Such were their lives at Marshall House at present. So much had changed and yet none of it seemed to surprise him. His father, who had been a formidable presence, had been reduced to a mere shell, unable to communicate in the most basic of methods. He was like a stranger to them all, a stranger who required nearly constant care and patience. Despite the demands on them, no one was willing to complain, not openly. After weeks of burdensome work, they all bore the look of exhaustion, but no respite formed on the horizon. With scarcely any improvement in his condition since his return, it grew clearer each day that the father they once knew would not be returning.
Ainsley dressed for work with these thoughts on his mind. He could not expect his sister to continue as she had. He himself could barely muster the strength to face another sleepless night or harrowing setback, though he would certainly try. How much longer would his father linger in such a state?
He took the rounded stairs to the foyer slowly, adjusting his cufflinks as he walked. Movement outside the front door caught his eye. As he passed the long, narrow window, he saw his brother, Daniel, standing outside under the portico.
“Is breakfast being served out here?” Ainsley asked, poking his head through the door.
Daniel didn’t bother to generate a smile. He glanced to Ainsley and then returned his stare down the street. When Ainsley stepped out he saw a small crowd of people gathered about four houses down. A single constable stood on guard, trying to keep the onlookers at bay. Ainsley craned his neck around a cement column before he saw a peculiar shape at the gathering’s centre. A man, not moving.
He was down the steps before his brother could say anything. As he neared the handful of people he could hear the gasps and murmurs grow louder. Once he was five paces from the scene his suspicion was confirmed when he saw a slim, crimson slash along the man’s throat. For a moment, Ainsley stood transfixed, as if he were just another passerby.
The man had been tied to the lamppost, his hands bound in front of him, tied at the wrists, while his feet were separated and tied to the post a few inches from the ground. His shirt was marked with copious amounts of blood that had run down from the wound at his neck. His hair looked as if it had been cut off in haste; nicks in his scalp told Ainsley it had been done with a knife, most likely the same one that had been used on the man’s throat.
A woman came alongside him and gasped before turning her head into the chest of her male companion.
After a moment of observation, Ainsley turned to look at their surroundings and saw Julia walking down the street toward them. She carried a large, willow basket laden with items from the nearby bakery. She smiled toward him before he could say anything and then her head turned and she saw the body.
She dropped the basket and took a step back in fright, covering her mouth with her hand and grabbing for Ainsley’s arm. “Goodness mercy!” she said, turning away.
Ainsley rubbed her arm in an effort to comfort her, but soon stopped when he realized his brother was still looking at them from the front of Marshall House. Ainsley turned to the bobby, who stood a foot fro
m the dead man. The constable looked far too young to be a member of the force. He regarded the crowd with the stern determination of a hall boy at school.
Ainsley stepped forward to get a closer look but the hall boy pressed back on his chest. “I cannot let you pass, sir,” he said with notable uncertainty.
“I’m the morgue surgeon at St. Thomas,” Ainsley said quietly so his neighbours would not hear. “Inspector Simms sent word that I was to meet him here.” Ainsley blanched at his own lie, and immediately questioned why he had said it. He hadn’t worked a case with Inspector Simms at the Yard for over two months and he had no such arrangement, standing or otherwise.
The hall boy looked uncertain and his gaze kept darting to the pavement.
“May I?” Ainsley inched forward and pointed to the body. After a moment of thought, the constable gave a slight nod and Ainsley wasted no time. He inspected the ground quickly before positioning himself right in front of the dead man.
The man’s eyes were closed and his head was slouched to the side like an unattended marionette. His bowler hat was held to his chest by the weight of his arms in front of him. The rope used to bind him to the lamppost was as thick as a man’s thumb and was fastened in such a way it would take many minutes to unravel it.
Without thought, Ainsley’s hand went up to the wound at the man’s throat. The cut had been made quickly, but the knife caught on the flesh twice.
Ainsley held the man’s chin to turn his head to the side. Something silver in the man’s mouth caught his eye. Easing in closer, Ainsley saw what looked like a tiny, round lead ball, but when he lifted his hand to pull it out a familiar voice reached him from the street.
“I said secure the scene, Robertson!” Inspector Simms charged across the street from the police carriage and began pushing the onlookers further away from the scene.
Ainsley pulled his hand away from the corpse and slipped whatever the metal thing was into his trouser pocket. When he turned, Inspector Simms was glaring at him from two paces away.
“My apologies, Inspector,” Ainsley said instantly. “Old habits.”
Simms said nothing as Ainsley stepped away. He saw Julia waiting for him near the iron fence down the street and headed straight for her.
From behind him, Ainsley could hear Simms barking orders to other officers who had shown up, and quickly the scene was cordoned off. Ainsley plucked the dropped basket from the pavement and passed it to Julia as they headed back to Marshall House.
Daniel was still under the portico when they approached, smoking a slim cigar. He twisted his mouth in thought. “Perhaps Father would be more comfortable at The Briar,” he said, keeping an eye on the ruckus further down the road. The Briar was their country estate near Tunbridge Wells, where their mother resided while she lived. “This neighbourhood will soon be like all the rest.” He brought his cigar to his mouth and inhaled.
“Repairs won’t be finished for another month,” Ainsley reminded him as he walked up the three steps to their front door
Julia turned to head down the servants’ stairs that led to the kitchen in the basement. Ainsley’s heart lurched when he saw this, but he couldn’t stop her, not when his brother was standing over him. After a moment, Ainsley realized he had been watching her far longer than appropriate. He snapped his attention back to his brother and hoped he hadn’t noticed. “The roof needed to be completely replaced and much of the plaster inside as well. These are not quick repairs.”
Daniel huffed. “The expense, brother,” he said with a snarl. “I am only interested in the expense.”
“You’ll be glad of it in time,” Ainsley said. “The house wasn’t worth much of anything in that state.”
A smile tickled the edges of Daniel’s mouth as he surveyed his cigar. “And now with Aunt Louisa and her little…gems taking it over it won’t be worth much to us at all.”
Weeks before, it had been decided that Aunt Louisa and her three boys, recently returned from long residence in India, would stay at The Briar once it was made habitable again. For now they would stay at Marshall House. Nathaniel, her nearly grown son, was more than pleased at the prospect of a prolonged stay in the city. However, his younger brothers, George and Hubert, who were eight and ten respectively, seemed stifled by the close confines on the Belgravia house and its miniscule yard. To compensate, they spent their days tormenting the servants and running circles around their governess. Aunt Louisa seemed blind to her sons’ misdeeds and did very little to correct them.
“We’ll stay. For Abraham, you see,” Aunt Louisa had said, convinced her presence would help her brother recover from his condition. She pictured herself as a mother to them all, despite the fact that Daniel was now married and Margaret and Peter were completely grown.
It was no secret that Daniel hated the idea of Aunt Louisa taking over their country property, the place where all three of them grew up. He had said once he’d like it sold, but retracted his statement once he saw how much the idea distressed Margaret. She still viewed the property with childlike ideation, something that couldn’t be tarnished no matter how many tragedies took place there. Ainsley, however, knew since their mother’s death and after their recent misadventure that he and Margaret wouldn’t be returning anytime soon.
“It’s not like I can take Evelyn there from time to time, could I?” Daniel continued. “And we’re still expected to carry the expense.”
“Aunt Louisa has nowhere else to go,” Ainsley reminded him.
“She can go back to her husband,” Daniel answered sharply.
The frustration Ainsley felt for his brother had not improved much over time. Daniel was so much like their father, demanding to the point of cruelty. The fact that Daniel was not actually Lord Marshall’s son, but rather the result of a premarital affair their mother had had, still perplexed Ainsley. If anyone should resemble their father, it should be himself, given that they shared a direct bloodline. While Ainsley loathed their father, or at least the memory of the man he once was, Daniel revered him and held him up on the highest pedestal. His brother did not know that he was not Lord Marshall’s son. Many months ago Margaret and Peter had decided they were not going to tell him. It was better that way. Daniel could continue to believe he was the direct line of the Marshall name and Ainsley could pursue his career as a surgeon without further expectations to complicate the issue.
Ainsley heaved a heavy-hearted sigh and shook his head at his brother’s remark. He had learned not to expect empathy from him because he was disappointed every time. “I have work to do at the hospital.” Ainsley forced a smile. “Good to see you again, brother,” he said as he passed Daniel and went for the front door.
The door swung open before Ainsley touched the knob, and he realized Maxwell had been standing there waiting for some time.
“I thought you stopped all that nonsense,” Daniel said, turning to look at Ainsley in the doorway. When their eyes met Daniel nodded toward the ruckus down the road. “I’d thought you come around for your family’s sake.” He scraped the top of his cigar on the railing.
Maxwell’s gloved hand appeared, his palm upturned as Daniel dropped the cigar end into it. Maxwell closed his fist around it and stepped out of Ainsley’s way.
It was all nonsense to Ainsley, who felt the duties of their servants were excessive. Despite footmen to help him dress and coachmen to take him places, Ainsley discovered early on how much freedom he enjoyed when he did things on his own. His brother reveled in the constant attention and most likely could not fathom a life to which one was not completely catered.
“I thought you’d stopped all the nonsense too,” Ainsley said.
Daniel returned his comment with a look of bewilderment, but Ainsley was in no mood to continue the conversation. He walked past Maxwell and went for the dining room. He had to be at the hospital shortly and he’d need to start walking soon if he were to get there on time.
Chapter 2
Aunt Louisa was already seated at the breakfa
st table, a copy of the morning edition of the Daily Telegraph and Courier in her hands. “Good morning, darling,” she said, placing her paper to the side. “Another day, another salacious detail regarding Abraham.”
“What have they printed now?” he asked, taking a seat opposite his aunt.
Aunt Louisa tried to wave him off, but the look on her face betrayed her worry. “’Tis nothing. I just hate to see the family made into such a mockery for others to jeer at. You’d believe he was an exhibit at the circus the way they talk of him.”
Ainsley pulled the paper up and eyed the social pages. “Doctors Bent and Davidson are at a loss to diagnose Lord Marshall’s ailment as it does not resemble true apoplexy and appears to be more related to old age than a specific affliction,” he read.
“See what I mean? Rubbish.”
“Lord Marshall is attended day and night by family members who are further aided by a dedicated nurse and a team of medical doctors who visit the Marshalls’ London home on a daily basis.” Ainsley tossed the paper aside. “Goodness. It’s as if journalists are following our every move.”
Aunt Louisa brushed back a curl from her forehead. “I have it in mind to bring a libel suit on that chambermaid, whatever her name was.”
“Lisle,” Ainsley offered, remembering the girl they had released from their employ not a week prior.
“Yes, that’s the one. How dare she sell our secrets to the papers? As if we didn’t have enough occupying our thoughts.” She huffed and picked up her teacup.
“She’s gone now and soon they will have no more to write about.”
Aunt Louisa took a sip of tea. “I don’t even want to know what is happening down the street,” she said. “Sometimes I fear London is too much for me.”
“I’m sure you’ll read of it in the papers before long,” Ainsley explained.
His aunt was not as aloof as she pretended. She made it a point to know what was going on in all corners of the city, but feigned ignorance whenever a subject came up. Ainsley had caught her a few times offering her informed opinion, but he never held it against her. It was all an act, played out for the benefit of good society, which expected women to sit and chat about nonsense, never expecting to touch on any topics of real interest. Margaret also hated the charade and was an admittedly terrible player.
Prayers for the Dying Page 2
