Prayers for the Dying

by Tracy L. Ward

  Even in the darkness she could see a shadow cross the alley below. As she watched, another darted past her line of sight. She could see nothing but the outlines, dark forms making their way from Old Nelson road to the narrow passageway that led to Mary and Robert’s front door.

  Mary was in the other room. Lucy was sleeping just across the bedroom.

  “Mary,” Julia said calmly, “can you come to the bedroom please?”

  She inched toward Lucy, who was only just waking up. She did not cry in the usual way of babies. She only lay there peering up at Julia, expectantly.

  Julia could hear her sister-in-law groan at her request. Mary was exhausted. Neither of them had been granted much sleep in the last few days. Their worry for Robert’s safety had grown steadily as they waited, but Julia knew their troubles were about to get much worse.

  Julia pulled Lucy up from her laundry basket bed and cradled her gently to her chest. She bobbed up and down slowly as she walked for the window.

  A narrow ledge was just outside. It wasn’t much but it could give them enough stability to make their way to an adjoining roof and freedom beyond. Julia had been eyeing it for days, praying they never would have need to use it.

  “Mary, there’s something we need to talk about,” Julia pleaded, circling the room in search of a blanket for Lucy to protect her from the rain.

  Mary appeared at the bedroom door, weary and despondent. Her eyes were swollen from crying and her hair a tangled mess from her constantly pulling at it.

  A powerful knock rattled the entry door. Mary started and whirled around in terror. “Oh my God, what do we do?”

  Julia walked toward her slowly. “We need to take Lucy and go.”

  “But Robert, he’s coming back.”

  Even with her child directly in front of her, Mary made no movement to take her from Julia. In the last few days Julia could not coax her to nurse her child or rock her to sleep. Since Robert’s disappearance it was as if little Lucy didn’t exist anymore.

  “We have to think of Lucy now,” Julia said, not wanting to admit her brother might have been killed like Jeremiah had.

  Another hard knock sounded. “Mary Crandall?” came a gruff voice from the other side.

  Mary shook her head fearfully as Julia pulled Mary’s cloak from the end of the bed. “I cannot leave him.”

  “You must. For Lucy’s sake,” Julia hissed, trying to hand her the cloak.

  The rain pelleted down in sheets, bouncing off the still sun-hot bricks and parched pavement. Steam rose from the stones.

  The knocks on the door ended and a determined pounding began, rocking the thin wood of the door and inching the small table barricade farther into the room.

  “We have to go now,” Julia said. She reached for Mary’s sleeve but missed by a fraction of an inch.

  Mary was already walking into the main room when the door finally gave way and three men burst in.

  Julia recoiled back to the window. Good God, if only Mary had come when Julia first called for her. With Lucy snug beneath her blanket and Mary’s cloak, Julia slipped through the window, and perched herself on the ledge, making herself as slim as possible. She listened as the men went about the rooms. She waited for Mary to appear, all the while inching toward the adjoining roof.

  Above the rain, Julia could hear them turning over tables and chairs, moving the bed and smashing knickknacks. And then Mary screamed sharply and Julia stopped. Lucy began to stir beneath her layers of protection and Julia closed her eyes, willing her to settle down.

  “We only want the bitch,” one of the men said, as Mary moaned in agony. “Where is she?”

  Mary let out another yelp.

  Julia’s heart lurched at the thought of leaving Robert’s wife behind. If she stayed on the ledge they’d find her before long. If she left both she and Lucy had a better chance of survival.

  “My baby,” Mary said from somewhere in the room. “Please don’t hurt my baby.”

  “No one checked outside the window!”

  Mary had given her up.

  Chapter 19

  When Margaret and Ainsley walked through the front door of Marshall House a heavy mood greeted them. Cutter was on hand to help them shed their outer clothes, which has been soaked by the torrential rains that pelleted them as they ran from the carriage to the door.

  “Where is everyone?” Margaret asked as Cutter took her hat.

  “Lord Benedict hasn’t left, Lady Margaret,” he said. “They are with His Lordship.”

  The brother and sister pair exchanged glances. In the upper hallway of the house, a series of shouts, muffled by the maze of rooms and doorways, rang out.

  “Was that Father?” Ainsley asked.

  They went for the stairs, Ainsley charging ahead and racing down the hall to their father’s room. Inside, Aunt Louisa and Lord Benedict stood around Lord Marshall’s bed, as the invalid wriggled on the floor, clutching his hands over his chest. Ainsley went to him immediately. “What is God’s name?” he asked, kneeling on the floor beside his father.

  “That creature bit me!” Lord Benedict bellowed.

  When Ainsley looked up again, Margaret was rounding the threshold. He also saw Lord Benedict clutching his right hand, a small amount of blood trailing between his fingers. With a determined look, Lord Marshall raised his face to Ainsley, blood staining the edge of his mouth.

  “The creature you speak of is my father,” Ainsley yelled from his place on the floor. “And he’s still Lord Marshall, Earl of Montcliff, member of the House of Lords. I demand you treat him as such.”

  Turning his attention back to his father, Ainsley saw the leather valise held tightly to his torso with his one useable arm. Margaret appeared at his side, kneeling as well.

  “This cannot be normal,” she said quietly so only Peter could hear.

  “Our deepest apologies, Lord Benedict,” Aunt Louisa began behind them. “My brother has not been himself, as you well know.”

  “Aunt Louisa, call for Maxwell, please,” Ainsley ordered.

  Begrudgingly, she crossed the floor to the mantel and pulled on the cord that hung from the ceiling. “I fear he may be losing his mind, Peter,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “Perhaps it’s time to face facts.”

  Ainsley placed his open hand on the side of his father’s face, a gesture meant to coax him from his agitated state. “It’s all right, Father,” he said softly, pulling the valise from Lord Marshall’s grasp.

  The old man had very little strength in his good arm and that is why he had rolled onto the bag. There was something in it, Ainsley reasoned, that his father did not want Lord Benedict getting a hold of.

  “What is it?” Ainsley asked, gently pulling the mouth of the bag open.

  “It was empty when I checked,” Margaret insisted. “Father would not let us remove it from the room.”

  The bottom of the valise was empty, the black satin lining shimmering in the lamp light. There had to be something else, Ainsley told himself. He reached in and began feeling for anything out of the ordinary.

  “He’s a fool. A right, damned fool,” Lord Benedict insisted, while Aunt Louisa fussed.

  “Peter, please, come take a look at Lord Benedict’s hand. I’m afraid he may need a stitch or two.” Aunt Louisa presented a handkerchief, which Lord Benedict applied to his wound.

  Ainsley ignored the pleas from his aunt and ran his hand along the smooth lining. He stopped when his fingers felt something hard beneath the fabric. His face must have changed because Margaret’s face alighted.

  “What is it, Peter?” she asked, moving closer.

  Lord Marshall became instantly relaxed as Ainsley ripped into the inner seam of the valise. He pulled out a frayed envelope with papers folded inside. There were three letters, each addressed to Lord Abraham Marshall of Belgravia.

  Ainsley noted the return address.

  Maxwell appeared at the door. “Sir.”

  “Maxwell, help me return His Lordshi
p to his bed,” Ainsley said soberly.

  Without any fuss, Lord Marshall allowed the butler to move him, but he never took his eyes from Ainsley.

  “What are those?” Aunt Louisa asked, inching forward, prepared to take them from him.

  Ainsley turned, using his body to stop her from seizing them. There was a special reason their father would hide them. At first, he wasn’t sure if he should open them, but Lord Marshall gave a nod and then his eyes welled up with tears.

  He opened the first letter and saw that it had been written the prior winter. “They’re letters to Father,” he explained. “From Lord Benedict.”

  Margaret inched closer and read over her brother’s shoulders. After scanning the first letter Ainsley handed it to Margaret so he could read the next. A few tense moments passed before Ainsley could read no longer. The anger he felt began to overshadow his sense of reason. He felt his hands curling into fists at his side and he was forced to look away. He walked to the window that overlooked the back garden, unsure how to proceed.

  “What is it?” Aunt Louisa asked, coming toward them to read the letters herself. “What’s the matter?”

  “Lord Benedict begged Father to come to the plantation in Barbados,” Margaret said, allowing Aunt Louisa to take the letters.

  “A matter of dire urgency,” Ainsley said airily from the window.

  “It must be about Vivian’s mother,” Aunt Louisa said. “She was sick for some time, yes?” She turned to look at Lord Benedict, but he refused to make eye contact as he inched toward the mantel.

  “Vivian is not our sibling,” Ainsley said, finally able to look at the others in the room. “She is the result of an affair Lord Benedict had with a maid at Father’s estate near Bridgetown. Father had been seeing to the child’s care and education these fourteen years.”

  Ainsley did the math. Lord Benedict would have been eighteen when Vivian was born.

  All eyes turned to Lord Benedict, who bowed his head in defeat.

  “It’s true,” he said quietly, after a few moments. “I wasn’t in a place to claim her as my own. Not as a child myself. My father was sick and I was soon to be the heir to a dwindling fortune.” He licked his lips and clenched the handkerchief to his wound tighter. A few times he opened his mouth to speak and then stopped himself. “Why should I have to pay the rest of my life for a careless mistake?” He searched the room for allies. “We are all friends here, and I would appreciate it if we all could keep this knowledge amongst the four of us. For Cecilia’s sake.”

  “You allowed me to believe she was our sister,” Margaret said. “I asked you without reservation.”

  “Now, Margaret, what was I supposed to say? My fiancée—”

  “Is a dear friend of mine,” Aunt Louisa said suddenly. “And she will know the truth of it, whatever the outcome.”

  “It wasn’t just a short affair,” Ainsley said, walking toward Lord Benedict. “You said in the letter the woman was content to see you once a year, but that she’d grown demanding.”

  Lord Benedict’s expression fell. “She asked for more money. She was always asking for more money. What was I supposed to do?”

  “You asked Father to help you find a solution,” Margaret said, flipping to the next page of the letters. “What exactly were you asking Father to do?” she pressed.

  Moments passed by but no reply came. The room fell silent as everyone looked to Lord Benedict for answers. It was unfortunate that Lord Marshall could not speak for himself and Ainsley feared they would only achieve one side of the story.

  Then a tiny voice came from the door. “He asked him to say I was his. He said if his fiancée found out her family would take her dowry and he’d be left penniless.” Vivian stood, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Now hold on, just a minute!” Lord Benedict walked forward, but Ainsley prevented him from getting to the girl.

  “It’s true!” Vivian yelled from the door. “I heard you fighting in His Lordship’s room after mother finally passed. You said if he didn’t claim me, you’d tell everyone that his son”—her eyes went to the floor—“that his firstborn son was from another man.”

  Aunt Louisa gasped.

  “Daniel.” Margaret closed her eyes. “He doesn’t know.”

  Lord Benedict chuckled quietly and shrugged when Ainsley looked to him. “Better to have an illegitimate negro girl than an illegitimate male heir, yes? A lesser scandal as scandals go.”

  “How dare you!” Aunt Louisa slapped Lord Benedict across the face and when she tried to hit him a second time he grabbed her wrist and pushed her away. She fell to the floor, her dress billowing out around her. Margaret cried out and Ainsley stepped forward, placing himself between Lord Benedict and everyone else in the room.

  Lord Benedict recoiled at the sight of him, unable to take his eye from Ainsley’s swollen jaw and black eye.

  “Is that what you did to my father?” Ainsley asked, pushing his hands into Lord Benedict chest to drive him away from the women. If things came to blows he wanted the scuffle away from those who were most vulnerable. He had no doubt his face looked a fright after the beating Thaddeus had given him. Benedict was clearly terrified.

  “Peter, what are you saying?” Margaret asked, as she helped Aunt Louisa stand.

  “Father doesn’t have apoplexy,” Ainsley said without taking his eyes from Lord Benedict. “He has a brain injury, most likely sustained from blunt trauma to the head. He refused to be blackmailed and you pushed him, didn’t you? You pushed him and he fell, yes?”

  Lord Benedict shook his head rapidly. “No, no,” he said as he backed away. “He tried to go for the door but tripped. Honest.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Ainsley spotted Benedict’s walking cane leaning against the chair next to the fireplace. Ainsley snatched it up to examine the brass clutch. “Is this what you used to hit him as he walked away?”

  “What? No?” Lord Benedict’s eyes darted to the side as he lied.

  Ainsley stepped closer and raised the cane to strike. Lord Benedict cowered and cried out before Ainsley even touched him.

  “Don’t hurt me. I’ve been a friend to your family for years!”

  “Peter, don’t!” Margaret rushed to him and held his arm. “We’ll call the Yard. They will see to it.”

  Knowing his father suffered daily because of the cowardly actions of such a man sickened Ainsley. A man’s life has been changed irrevocably and here Benedict begged for mercy.

  “Coward.” Ainsley nearly spat as he spoke. “I’m not going to hurt a sad, pathetic imbecile like you.” He dropped the walking cane to the rug. “I’m going to alert the authorities in Barbados and direct them to do a thorough investigation into that poor maid’s death. This night, I am putting you on the very next boat to sail the Atlantic and I will ensure you make the voyage in chains!”

  A half hour later, Lord Benedict was led away by Det. Inspector Wright, who seemed very pleased at the prospect of a voyage to a tropical locale. Ainsley returned to his father’s room and found Aunt Louisa seated in the chair next to Lord Marshall’s bed, a book in her lap ready for her evening routine of reading.

  Margaret and Vivian were standing at the foot of the bed.

  “Why have you not said anything until this night?” Margaret asked.

  “I did not know I could trust you, miss.” The girl’s eyes went from Margaret to Aunt Louisa and back again. “I had wanted to tell you both so many times.”

  “Have no fear, child,” Aunt Louisa said. “You are amongst friends now.”

  Lord Marshall began murmuring and raised his good arm to Ainsley. Ainsley walked to the bedside, grabbed his father’s hand, and squeezed it. “I told Inspector Wright to interview all the doctors who saw to your wound,” he said. “We’ll have some answers before long.”

  Aunt Louisa sighed. “Not that it matters now,” she said. “What’s done is done.”

  “Even still,” Ainsley said. “It’s better to know what we are facing.
”

  Margaret pushed aside a tear. “We should see to getting this young lady a better room on the family floor.”

  “Oh no, miss,” Vivian said. “I couldn’t.”

  “You can and you will,” Ainsley said in a lighthearted tone. “You are the daughter of a noble, yes?”

  Vivian’s eyes grew bright at the prospect. She pressed her lips together as she looked up to Margaret. “Thank you.”

  Margaret followed Ainsley down the hall as he walked toward his room. “Do you think Daniel will loosen the purse strings for our new ward?” she asked as they crossed beneath the door.

  “He’d better,” Ainsley replied, pulling at the buttons of his collar. “I’ll make him.”

  “Don’t you think we should tell him? About his father?”

  Ainsley shook his head, wishing he weren’t the custodian of such a secret.

  “He deserves to know. Once the secret is out no one will be able to use it against us,” Margaret pleaded.

  “And what will that mean for you? Do you think Blair, the eldest son of a duke, will be so understanding? Our family is riddled with scandal. Whichever way we turn there is another reason for society to shun us.”

  “I thought you cared little for society,” Margaret said.

  “My only care is for you. Much longer and you’ll…” His voice trailed off as he took in the look on her face.

  “I found the one for me,” she said, tears pooling on her lower eyelids. “But I can’t be with him. Father needs me. I’ve accepted my fate and I really wish you would as well.”

  “Margaret—”

  But by the time he spoke, she had already left the room.

  After the confrontation with Lord Benedict the house fell into a predictable quiet as family members took to their rooms and the servants scattered into the bowels of the house to prepare for the following day. As midnight ticked past, Ainsley sat wide awake in his chair, which he had set by the window, his mind plotting Thaddeus’s downfall. The man couldn’t be reasoned with through any logical means. According to Simms, he was untouchable, always able to skirt the law and never being called to task for his misdeeds. Too many men depended on the work he gave them. None would think to turn on him. He’s like a god, Ainsley realized. Or a king.