Prayers for the Dying

by Tracy L. Ward

  “Don’t argue. It’s far too late in the evening and I haven’t had enough to drink. Just think about what I said.” She gave Margaret a gentle pat on the cheek before leaving the room.

  Margaret didn’t want to think about a life without Jonas. In fact, for much of the last few weeks Margaret had been doing everything and anything to keep herself from thinking about him. Her late-night vigils with her father, the great care she took with organizing the household, and the interest she had in Ainsley’s work were all a means to ignore the heartache that burned away inside her. Her future with Jonas remained unclear. She hadn’t been able to speak with him but imagined he was cross with her. If he wasn’t already he certainly would be once he found out Blair had been calling at the house with marked frequency. He had accused her before of changing her mind, a charge she emphatically denied.

  In a perfect world, Margaret and Jonas would have been wed already, eloped at some chapel in Scotland. Had everything gone as planned she’d be fumbling her way around a town home, one befitting the income of a doctor, unable to cook a proper breakfast or iron a shirt. Jonas would laugh at her, perhaps even tease her for her lack of womanly skills, but he’d love her. Boy, would that man love her.

  Margaret felt a thump form in her throat as she thought of him.

  Nothing could be done for it now. What was done was done. He was gone and she was at Marshall House, where duty demanded.

  She lingered in the parlour for a few moments, soaking in the quiet of the room, when the door opened and Vivian appeared with an empty tray to collect the dishes left by the family. She immediately bowed her head.

  “My apologies, miss,” she said softly, her Barbadian accent colouring her whisper. The girl began to back away.

  “Stay a moment,” Margaret said, taking a step toward her. “I wanted to ask how the others are treating you. Belowstairs, I mean.”

  There was no delicate way to put forward her concern. Vivian was visibly different with her brown skin, crimped hair, and slave heritage. Margaret had no doubt their English servants would see their negro colleague as someone completely beneath them.

  “As well as can be expected, miss.”

  Margaret noticed a silver, oval locket around the girl’s neck, etched with a filigree pattern and dotted with a very tiny green gem. “That’s a lovely piece,” Margaret said, genuinely attracted to its beauty.

  With a quick, jerky movement, Vivian raised her hand as if to protect it.

  “Does it carry a picture?” Margaret asked. She had seen similar necklaces in the shops, and around the necks of a few friends, but had never owned one herself.

  Slowly, Vivian released the front of the locket and showed Margaret a tiny photograph of a coloured woman. A gold cross had been secured to the opposite side.

  “A mourning locket.” Margaret nearly cried at the sweetness of the tribute. “My mother passed away recently as well. You must miss your mother and your home country terribly.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Has your father passed as well?” Margaret asked with hesitation.

  No reply came immediately. Vivian avoided Margaret’s gaze as if trying to find the right words to explain her precarious position. “My father lives,” she said as she raised her brown eyes.

  Margaret felt a sweeping recognition. Vivian’s complexion was much lighter than the woman in the image and there was something in her features that resonated as British.

  An interesting dynamic existed in Barbados. Slave labour once dominated the tobacco and sugarcane plantations in the Caribbean and was only abolished twenty-odd years before in all parts of the Empire. Even though the population between negro workers and British transplants was equally divided, there remained obvious disparities between the wealthy and the poor. That dynamic made it easy for noblemen to take advantage of many of the vulnerable females. It was possible Vivian’s mother had been a victim of the British hierarchy.

  The thought was disturbing enough but in that moment, looking into the deep brown eyes of the fifteen-year-old, Margaret wondered if her father could have had an affair with a woman who worked at their estate in Barbados. Could Vivian be related to them, as an illegitimate child of Lord Marshall? It would explain his sudden departure to the island. It would explain the girl’s sudden appearance at their home in London. Did Lord Benedict know?

  Margaret started at the thought, but she maintained her composure. “Well, then you shall stay with us until the two of you can be reunited.” She forced a light smile and hoped the girl didn’t see the trembling in her hands.

  “Yes, miss.” The girl nodded and then skirted around her to return to her task.

  Margaret watched for a few moments as Vivian went to each of the tables systematically to collect what had been easily discarded by the family and their guest. Margaret looked for anything that would signal to her that Vivian was her sister. Perhaps there was a mannerism, a stance that would confirm Margaret’s suspicion, but there was nothing so obvious.

  Chapter 11

  The number of fighting venues, the types of underground cesspits where illegal betting and underhand dealings flourished, was countless. Ainsley knew of a mere handful. In London, he trusted only one.

  Ainsley hadn’t walked through the doors in many months, not since that night when the world crashed down around him. That night he entered the ring with boyish humiliation on his mind and a desire to see his greatest adversary brought to his knees. The fight ended with a split-second decision, one that he couldn’t retract. The bang and then the silence that followed haunted him still. Ainsley shuttered internally at the memory brought on by the smell of whiskey, cigar smoke, and sweat that greeted him as he entered. How he wished Jonas was with him, as he had been that night, to add more muscle to his side should anything about his visit go downhill.

  The room, a wide-open basement complete with low ceilings and large brick columns, was filled with men transfixed by the fight taking place at the centre of the throng. There was no doubt they all had wagers placed on the outcome. Only a few women were present, ladies of the night willing to help any successful gamblers part with their winnings. One, most likely lured by his fine tailored suit and young features, approached him.

  “Hello, darling,” she said, inching her voluptuous chest to his.

  “Where’s Jerry?” he asked sharply.

  Her pasted smile faded as she looked him over. “Who’s asking?”

  Ainsley pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

  Recognition flooded over her as she watched. “Well now,” she said happily, “Peter!” She turned to the men closest to her. “Hey everyone, it’s Pe—”

  Ainsley snatched her wrist as she was raising it up to call everyone over and pulled her into him. “Just tell me where Jerry is.”

  Startled, she nodded and he let her go. “He’s down the hall, farthest door on the left.” She cocked her head to the side, indicating a narrow passage opening to the right of the bar.

  He left her, unsure whether she would continue to tell everyone about his return or not. It was partly due to the support from the crowd, those who knew him, that he was able to escape the gallows that night. Ainsley was one of them. He had trained and fought in the ring at the centre of the room, and they weren’t about to turn him into the Yard for doing what they all wished was in themselves to do. No one held sympathy for the child killer. Many felt he got his due and were glad enough they were there to witness his death. Little did they know the price Ainsley paid for the deed and the internal anguish that would never leave him.

  Ainsley inched down the corridor, aware of the walls brushing his shoulders on both sides as he moved forward. The rooms he passed appeared to be storage rooms, with dark ominous shadows piled high with any number of discarded goods. The door at the end was closed, but beams of light escaped into the corridor around its misshapen fit.

  “I told you, I don’t want any more tonight!” came Jerry’s raspy voice from inside the roo
m.

  Ainsley pushed the door open with his knee and leaned into the eroding red brick that served as the doorframe. “Hello, Jerry.”

  “Holy Mother of God, where the hell have you been?” Jerry stood, the volume of his voice indicating his surprise. “Jesus Christ, Peter! I had guys looking all over the city for you.” Jerry walked toward him with his arms stretched out, a fat cigar pinched between two fingers. “How the fuck have you been? Doing well, I see!” He tugged on Ainsley’s lapel and slapped his stomach.

  It was then Ainsley realized how overdressed he was for a visit. In the past he would have never worn his finer clothes as a way to fit in and protect his identity.

  “Shit, man, what have you got yourself into? You my competition now then?” Jerry asked, hinting that Ainsley had gone into the bookman business. “Come in. Sit down.” Jerry waved his arm at a chair opposite his, where a large weathered desk sat between them. Jerry circled the desk, but stopped short of sitting down when he realized Ainsley had only taken one step into the room. “I thought you got pinched,” he said, his tone suddenly nervous.

  “I’m looking for someone,” Ainsley said.

  Jerry shrugged. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Goes by the name Thaddeus.”

  Jerry’s face grew sullen. “Why would you be looking for a man such as that?”

  “I need to ask him a few questions.”

  Jerry licked his lips, circled the desk, and went straight for the door. After checking the corridor, he returned to the room and closed the door behind him. “I never heard of him and neither have you.” Jerry pointed a finger at Ainsley as he went back to his chair. His jovial tone had come to an abrupt end and a nervous demeanor took its place.

  From across the room Ainsley could see Jerry’s hand trembling as he picked up the bottle of ale on his desk and took a large gulp.

  “I heard you and he are cut from the same cloth,” Ainsley said stoically.

  Jerry looked shaken at the accusation. “Peter, after all we have been through together?”

  Tilting his head to the side, Ainsley raised his eyebrows. “Because of all we’ve been through.”

  A light tap sounded at the door.

  “Yes?” Jerry called, clearly agitated.

  The door creaked open and a large gentleman appeared. “Molly said you had a visitor,” the man said gruffly.

  Jerry waved him away. “Yes, yes. It’s all right. Leave us. And keep away from the door.”

  The man eyed Ainsley suspiciously, but relented under his employer’s command.

  “You expected trouble, Jerry?” Ainsley asked after the man left.

  “You can never be too careful.” Jerry admitted. “Please, Peter. Sit.”

  Finally yielding to Jerry’s requests, Ainsley slipped into the chair, but only after Jerry had sat in his. His elbows propped up on the chair arms, he knit his fingers together. For a moment it looked as if Jerry was unsure what they had been talking about.

  “Thaddeus,” Ainsley said sharply. “Tell me about Thaddeus.”

  Jerry closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, as if second-guessing what he was about to do. “He runs a club in Southwark. Promise me you’ll never go there.” He used the fingers with the cigar to point at him.

  “Why?”

  “That man and anyone who works for him is up to no good,” he said, lifting his glass for a drink. “Cheats and swindlers. They take wagers from men that don’t have money and when they lose he takes his payment by…other means.” Jerry looked visibly shaken as he spoke. “Take it from me, his fights are never fair.”

  “He pays fighters to take a fall,” Ainsley said matter-of-factly.

  “He owns much of Southwark and some of Vauxhall too. He’s got all manner of butcher, baker, and candlestick maker in his books.”

  “Gambling?”

  “Debts,” Jerry said. “Debts and secrets. Makes the world go ’round.” He took a long gulp of his ale before slapping it back on his desk. “If you have a deal with him, honor it and then leave town. Don’t return until he’s forgotten all about you.”

  “I have never met the man,” Ainsley confessed.

  “Keep it that way!” Jerry slammed his palm down on the desk.

  “Where is he?” Ainsley asked, ignoring his friend’s warning.

  Jerry laughed. “You really are thick, aren’t you?”

  Ainsley shook his head. “No. There’s just a woman I am trying to find.”

  The smile slid from Jerry’s face. “Forget about her. If she’s gone with him, there ain’t no getting her back.”

  Ainsley pressed out a fold in his trousers. “I just need an address.”

  For a time it looked as if Jerry wouldn’t oblige. He sneered at Ainsley, studying him in earnest; as if unsure he wanted to be responsible for such a meeting. With sudden clarity, Jerry put his cigar between his teeth before ripping a page from his book and quickly scribbling something on the paper. He stood and thrust the paper at Ainsley. “If anyone asks, you did not get this from me, you hear?”

  A frantic knock came at the door.

  “Not now!”

  Molly burst in, blood trickling from her nostril. “All hell’s broken loose,” she gasped, pulling her shawl over her bare shoulder. A roar of noise, yelling and shouting, wafted in from down the hall. “It’s Wendell again.”

  Jerry jumped up and ran out the door. “Jesus Christ, Wendell!”

  And with that he was gone. Ainsley left the room, Molly’s inviting gaze examining him as he walked by. The noise of the ruckus swelled as he moved toward the main room.

  The bout in the ring had been forgotten as the fighting spilled out into the rest of the club. Men, old and young, swung widely and furiously as the brawl spread. The few women in the room cowered behind the bar counter even as glasses and bottles were thrown about all around them. Jerry was already in the middle of the fray, pushing the combatants away from each other, his fat cigar still clenched between his teeth.

  Slipping the piece of paper in the breast pocket of his jacket, Ainsley skirted the edges of the tussle and smiled as he slipped up the stairs to street level. Had Jonas been there he would have begged him to come back, but that night Ainsley had little strength to fight. All he cared about was finding Julia.

  Chapter 12

  Even as dawn teased the eastern skyline, Ainsley had no desire to head home. The heartache and strain he would find there was unconquerable, whereas each step on London’s cobblestones made him feel active, if not successful. Thaddeus and his present-day connection to Julia remained unclear, but Ainsley possessed a dark foreboding about the entire thing. Apprehensive steps brought him to Blackfriars Bridge with Southwark and the address Jerry had given him waiting on the other side of the Thames.

  If Thaddeus was as vindictive as Mrs. Holliwell said then Ainsley doubted Julia would go back to him willingly. If Mrs. Holliwell had helped Julia get her position at Marshall House to keep her safe, then there remained the possibility that Julia hadn’t wanted to be free of him, just as she didn’t want to be free of her father. She had a history of remaining with men who could neither care properly for her nor commit to her.

  Ainsley was all too aware of what this meant for their relationship. It was entirely possible she had made a similar mistake with him; wishing to be free of him, yet unable to break the ties. The thought pained Ainsley to his core, causing him to pause at the midsection of the bridge and use the railing to hold himself vertical.

  “Tell him. Tell him,” voices urged from behind him.

  Ainsley whirled about just as a dark carriage rolled by on the bridge. The driver kept his eyes on him as he guided his team further down the bridge. The young doctor swallowed back the fear that resonated from his gut.

  “Not him. He’s too scared,” the voice came again. They came as whispers, harsh and desperate.

  “I’m scared too.”

  “It has to be him.”

  “Look, look.”

  The wo
rld spun relentlessly and he could feel his head lolling to one side. The words began repeating themselves, overlapping and then rising in volume.

  Tell him. Not him. He’s too scared. Look, look.

  Ainsley caught hold of the railing. He leaned over to face the water, readying himself to hurl should his body retch. Beneath him, the water flowed black with the ripples and dips, catching the glint of the midnight moon. This too made him nauseous.

  He would have retched had it not been for the body floating face down in the rippling tidewaters just beneath him. It took a moment for the sight to set in and for him to realize it was truly real and not another conjured image of his tormented soul.

  “Help.” His voice was horse and muffled against the sounds of the water. “A body!”

  No one was on the bridge with him and he was too far from the shore to clamour down. A rowboat shifted into view, manned by a weary young boy barely able to maneuver the bulky, wooden vessel. “Boy, stop!”

  The lad looked up, holding his hat to keep it from slipping from his head.

  Ainsley pointed, extending the entire length of his arm toward the dark and murky water. The woman, with brown tresses and a light-coloured frock, bobbed with the gentle waves of the Thames, unmoving and clearly deceased. “Take hold of that body!” Ainsley called.

  Following where Ainsley pointed, the boy looked and nearly fell back from his seat on the boat at the sight of it only a few feet from port side.

  “Catch hold of her!” Ainsley yelled, watching as the tidal waters drew her away.

  The boy shook his head rapidly and looked to slink away from the discovery.

  Again Ainsley scanned the bridge, this time seeing an older man walking toward him. “Sir, sir!” Ainsley caught the man’s attention. “Summon the watchman! There is a body.”

  The man gave one quick glance and gave Ainsley a nod before running toward the closest shore. When Ainsley looked back he saw the body floating further still, the gap between the boy and the corpse growing with each roll of the water.