Sweet Asylum

by Tracy L. Ward

  Ivy said nothing. She replaced her fork and looked over what little remained of her breakfast.

  “We wish to help you.” During the entire exchange Margaret remained guarded, watching Ivy uneasily from her side of the table.

  Ivy shook her head slightly but still avoided Margaret’s gaze. She pressed her lips together and divided her attention between the food in front of her and the shiny finish on the table. “I would like the opportunity to apologize to your brother, Mr. Marshall, in person,” Ivy said, fully aware that she was changing the subject, “for my behaviour last night. I was frightened…I … I wasn’t myself.”

  Margaret licked her lips, which had suddenly become dry. “What are you frightened of?”

  Finally, Ivy looked up, a pair of pale green eyes revealed as she did so. “Everything.”

  A gentle rap on the door pulled Margaret from Ivy’s mesmerizing stare.

  “Breakfast is served, my lady,” Jamieson said from the doorframe. “Mr. Marshall and Lady Louisa wait for you.”

  Aside from the obligatory morning greeting, breakfast began in silence with only the odd clink of silver touching china. Margaret kept her gaze to the food in front of her, unable to shake the look of terror she had seen in Ivy’s eyes. It was not surface fear, Margaret realized, but a fear deeply rooted and embedded in the girl. It was rather upsetting to Margaret.

  Aunt Louisa sat next to her while Ainsley sat across from them alongside Nathaniel. In the corner of her eye Margaret could sense their aunt eyeing Peter, every so often lifting her gaze as if hoping to catch him looking at her. There had been no time in the previous evening to greet each other properly or speak freely regarding arrangements for them. Even after Ivy fell into a restful sleep, cleanup ensued, which monopolized much of Margaret’s and Peter’s time.

  Margaret herself could not fathom what could have brought their father’s sister to their doorstep. Years ago, before Nathaniel had reached the age of his younger brothers, the Banks family left their home in Kent to live in India, where Aunt Louisa’s husband, Rodrick Banks, was stationed as colonel. As far as she knew, the Banks family still owned a sizeable estate an hour’s carriage ride away, and it seemed much more reasonable for Aunt Louisa to take her boys there.

  Aunt Louisa cleared her throat daintily. “I realize this is a terrible imposition,” she said. “We’ve been away a number of years, you understand. The abbey needs preparation and we weren’t expecting to return quite yet.”

  Margaret watched as Ainsley nodded across the table. He seemed willing to accept any explanation if only to end such an awkward meal.

  “We didn’t expect anyone to be here,” Nathaniel offered with an amused smile until he saw the look on his mother’s face. “We had heard you were all in London,” he continued shakily. “Well, that is”—his eyes switched from his mother to Margaret and back again—“what we heard.” He quickly snatched his glass of water.

  “A letter came from your father explaining his visit to Barbados. He said you were all well looked after in London. Given the current state of the abbey I thought The Briar was the next best thing.” She tried to lighten the mood with a smile.

  “Is Uncle Rodrick arriving shortly?” Margaret asked.

  “Oh, Rodrick? No. I don’t think so. He’s been detained a trifle longer in Mumbai.”

  “You travelled halfway across the world alone?” Margaret asked, deliciously pleased at the prospect.

  “I wasn’t alone, my dear. I have one son nearing manhood.” Nathaniel puffed out his chest at his mother’s remark and Ainsley chuckled into his breakfast plate.

  “The younger boys have been instructed to take their breakfast in their rooms,” Aunt Louisa said, as if purposefully changing the subject. “I have asked Mrs. Hoffman to see that they are well supervised. I am told there may be an extra staff member who can see to this task.”

  Ainsley finally looked up.

  It was clear Mrs. Hoffman, the housekeeper, hadn’t yet realized how much added strain the servants would be under with the arrival of so many unplanned guests. The Briar had already been running on a skeleton crew of servants, namely due to their father’s miserly efforts to control spending on the country house. Their town house could only spare two servants, Maxwell, the new butler who could learn much from Jamieson, and Julia, Margaret’s lady’s maid. Any servant pulled from their duties below stairs would surely crumble the delicate balance of the household.

  “May I suggest you place an advertisement for a governess, or au pair,” Ainsley offered. “Unless you haven’t any intentions of staying long.”

  Aunt Louisa’s composure faltered slightly. “Quite right,” she said. “I shall be out of your hair within the fortnight.”

  Ainsley gave a nod.

  With their father out of the country and their older brother, Daniel, occupied with business matters, not to mention his new wife in the city, much of the responsibility of the house fell to Ainsley, who really just wanted The Briar to himself. Yesterday, Margaret hadn’t felt the least bit guilty for impressing upon him a need for charity but now, seeing him burdened with so many unintended responsibilities, she saw him haggard and weary. She had thought his need for respite in the country was a jest but now she realized how desperate he was for it. Something weighed upon him, something greater than the weight of a household bursting at the seams.

  When Peter looked up from his plate Margaret realized she had been watching him, biting her lower lip ever so slightly. Ainsley gave a slight shake of his head and glanced quickly to Aunt Louisa. Much needed to be said but Margaret knew he did not want their conversation to happen in front of her. Though closely related on their father’s side, Aunt Louisa was a stranger in their midst and Margaret knew that whatever her brother’s decisions were regarding the girl in the guest room Aunt Louisa would surely expect to be made aware of any developments. Between Ainsley and Margaret there flowed an unwritten rule that seemed to govern much of their recent activities—keep your playing cards close and your dance card empty.

  “I’m finished,” Margaret proclaimed suddenly, pushing herself from the table. “I shall be in the library if you have anything to say to me.” Margaret gave Ainsley a marked look before turning to leave.

  She was barely out of the room before she heard Ainsley declare the end of his breakfast as well. “We shall speak later, Aunt,” he said. “I’m very interested to learn more about your time with the Indians.”

  Margaret turned at the door, deciding to wait for her brother.

  Aunt Louisa snorted her disinterest. “There is so little to tell you,” she said, “I shan’t bore you with the details.”

  Ainsley paused with his hands grasping the chair back. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Quiet all right,” she answered hurriedly. Aunt Louisa gave a quick glance to Margaret at the door but returned her gaze to Ainsley. “Why do you ask?”

  Ainsley shrugged and straightened his stance. “If you need anything, ask and I shall see what I can do.”

  Aunt Louisa gave a smile. “Thank you, dear.”

  Margaret entered the library ahead of her brother and for some reason went straight for the very window where she had seen Ivy running through the rain. She heard Ainsley close the door tightly before he said anything. “I shall send someone to town to make enquiries.”

  “I have already made plans for Julia and me to go,” Margaret said, leaning on the window ledge slightly.

  “Julia?”

  Margaret shrugged. “Mrs. Hoffman has a short list of provisions required and I asked if I may go as well. Who would be better to send than someone loyal to you and me in every way?”

  Margaret saw Peter turn his head and suppress a smile.

  “We won’t take long,” Margaret added.

  “And what line of enquiry do you plan to take? Somehow I cannot see you rapping on the doors of all and sundry asking which house is missing a young lady.”

  Margaret bristled at this. “Certain
ly not. But there are other means of broaching the subject, dear brother.”

  “I am glad you have chosen to go. I simply wouldn’t have the patience for it. Not today.”

  Margaret could see as much. Ainsley could not stand still and his expression looked fierce.

  “Have you spoken with the girl today?” Ainsley asked. “Have her senses been restored?” He shook his head slightly, probably wondering how he had gotten himself involved in such drama. He made no effort to hide his contempt for the girl or the predicament they all found themselves in.

  “Her name is Ivy,” Margaret answered rather forcefully.

  Peter raised an eyebrow.

  “I accompanied one of the kitchen girls in with a breakfast tray,” Margaret said by way of explanation.

  “How long ago was that?” Ainsley asked. He leaned into the edge of his desk and rested his arm over his thigh. Judging by his half smile Margaret’s forwardness seemed to be amusing him.

  “Just before breakfast,” Margaret replied.

  He gave a long exhale. “The best scenario is one in which Julia and you return with an address in hand so we can send this mad woman on her way in a carriage.” He shook his head then and eyed his insect specimens, specifically the one butterfly he was in the midst of positioning when he was called to the window.

  Margaret watched as he fingered the hardened wing. His newfound interest in entomology was quite evident; a number of completed frames already existed, scattered throughout the room, and related paraphernalia interspersed throughout.

  But it angered Margaret that Peter should be so cold toward a girl who obviously needed their help.

  “I think there is more to it than madness,” Margaret said, feeling a certain degree of heat rising to her cheeks. “I believe she is disturbed, but not in the way we are led to believe. What do we know of her origins? How can we know she should be returned there?” Margaret took a few steps forward, perceiving her brother’s silence as contemplation. “Perhaps we should take some time, think things through.”

  Ainsley’s gaze dropped to the floor before he closed his eyes. “We are not in a position to offer charity to anyone who decides to traipse through our gardens.”

  “Peter—!”

  “It cannot be done!” Peter stood, towering over her by nearly half a foot. He had done such manoeuvers in the past, especially when he wanted to silence an argument or curb a forthcoming one.

  “Why can’t it be done?” Margaret asked, raising her voice to further prove she would not be silenced so easily.

  Peter turned, running his hand through his hair.

  “What has happened to you?” Margaret asked following him around the desk. “You used to—”

  Ainsley rounded on her angrily, stepping close and leaning in toward her. “What?” he asked. “I used to what? Charge in headfirst without a thought to safety or ramifications? Yes, yes, I did that but no more. I know”—he gave a quick glance to the scarf delicately secured around Margaret’s neck—“we both know what happens when we get involved where we don’t belong.”

  Margaret watched as his eyes, at first filled with rage and anger, turned sullen and mournful. “Peter, I don’t—” She reached for him, to hug him or force him to look at her, but he brushed her hand away and turned.

  He walked the length of the room swiftly, only turning once he reached the bookshelves. For a moment it looked as if he might relent, listen to Margaret and use this opportunity to move beyond their past troubles. But then he spoke, and all hope Margaret had of him agreeing to help Ivy vanished almost instantly.

  “No more,” he said, refusing to look Margaret in the eye. “As soon as we know where she belongs, she will go there, even if I have to deliver her there personally.”

  Walking the main road of Tunbridge Wells was an unearthly experience for Margaret. She hadn’t been there in a number of months. Nothing much had changed but she had changed considerably. She was no longer able to clutch to her mother’s side and feign disinterest. She was it, the female face of the Marshall family, and everyone who passed by her knew it. The looks of pity were almost too much to bear.

  Margaret knew she would do well to ignore them and turned to her maid once they were alone on the street.

  “We should be careful not to ask for Ivy by name,” Margaret said quietly. She kept a lightness to her face as she regarded the buildings that surrounded them. If anyone saw them they would just think she was giving her maid some final instructions.

  During their carriage ride to town they had hatched a plan. Separately, they would seek the name of potential casual help that could be hired locally. They would describe the need for a girl who fit Ivy’s description and see who the proprietors recommended. Hopefully, they would recommend Ivy specifically, and reveal where Margaret and Julia could find her family.

  “If her situation is as bad as she says it is, then I will not reveal her whereabouts unwittingly,” Margaret continued.

  Julia nodded. “Knowing who they are first will allow us time to find out more about them.”

  “Exactly.” Margaret smiled slyly and gave Julia a sideways look. “What a devious maid I have.”

  Julia gave a wink.

  A couple passed them then. The gentleman tipped his hat and the lady gave a closed-mouth smile as they slid past. The street seemed to swell almost instantly with people exiting shops and waving to nearby carriages. Others strolled leisurely down the main road, looking into shop windows and waving to others they recognized.

  “I’ll see to Mrs. Hoffman’s list,” Julia proclaimed, gesturing to H.C. Bell’s Household Goods. “Perhaps you ought to enquire at the clothier.”

  Margaret followed the direction of Julia’s nod and saw a dense consortium of women at the window of the dress shop. She did not recognize anyone at first, which wasn’t too extraordinary given the scores of tourists that made their way to Tunbridge Wells each year.

  Margaret smiled and nodded to Julia before turning and making her way toward the shop.

  As usual, the bell above the door signalled her entrance and, once shut, Margaret found herself in a deafening quiet with only a distant conversation taking place toward a back part of the store. The shop displayed a number of dress forms, each adorned with a different style and colour of dress. She knew some pieces would be available straightaway, while most would have to be ordered and would not arrive for a week or more.

  Drawn to a particular dress in blue, Margaret ran her fingers over the lace that circled the low collar and simultaneously felt a pang of jealousy for the woman who could wear it. Absentmindedly, she touched the lace scarf at her neck that hid her scar but didn’t bother to wish it away. Such thoughts so far had proved to be fruitless.

  “May I help you?”

  Margaret jumped and turned abruptly. A shop girl slid a stack of fabric bolts onto the front counter and smiled at Margaret expectantly.

  “I’m looking for some scarves. Lace, if you have them. Nothing too transparent.”

  The girl nodded and asked Margaret to follow her. She was shown to a sizeable mirror next to a medium-height shelf. Small, oblong boxes were piled within the openings.

  “Was there a particular colour you had in mind, ma’am?” the girl asked.

  Margaret shook her head, trying to find the right words to broach the subject of Ivy.

  Moments passed as Margaret was presented with scarf after scarf, many of them too thin to serve Margaret’s purpose. Inattentively, she watched the girl open the box and pull out a light green silk scarf, edged in lace, and her face alighted. It was a gorgeous shade.

  When the shop girl reached for the scarf Margaret was already wearing she jumped and snapped her hand over the collar of her bodice.

  “Oh, excuse me, ma’am,” the girl said, taken aback. “I thought you’d like to try some on.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I can do it.” Margaret took the scarf and looked over her shoulder to a new group of customers who had just entered. “You
should go help them. I might be here a while.”

  The shop girl nodded and left her.

  After making sure the customers would be kept at the front of the store, Margaret placed the green scarf around the back of her neck. Only then did she pull the white one she wore out from her bodice. Before tucking the front of the green scarf into the neckline of her bodice, Margaret stole a glance at her scar, running her finger over the deep pink flesh that bubbled up from her lily-white skin. A lump formed in her throat and tears stung her eyes but she could not take her gaze from it.

  “Miss Margaret Marshall?”

  Margaret hastily tucked the scarf in place before turning toward the person who said her name. “Yes?”

  Standing a few paces from her was Lady Isabella Thornton, an old family friend and their closest neighbour in Tunbridge Wells. A young woman, not as old as Margaret, stood beside her with crimson hair and a delicate splashing of freckles.

  “I have not seen you in years, my dear,” Lady Thornton said. “I had thought your family gave up on The Briar years ago.”

  Margaret smiled. “Peter and I have returned for a time. For some rest.”

  Lady Thornton nodded and offered genuine condolences for the loss of her mother. “My heart broke at the news,” she said.

  Margaret could not think of a proper reply but was saved when Lady Thornton, most likely noticing her distress, turned to her companion. “This is Miss Priscilla Stratton, her father is Sir William Stratton of Essex.” The young woman bobbed a slight curtsey and glanced to Lady Thornton as if to ask if she had done it properly.

  “How do you do, Miss Stratton,” Margaret said.

  “Priscilla is promised to my son, Brandon,” Lady Thornton explained. “The nuptials won’t take place for another year, but Priscilla and her parents are visiting Breaside for a few weeks before heading to the continent.”

  Margaret remembered Brandon, and his older brother, Blair, fondly. As children, they would meet in the forest that separated their families’ properties and spend hours riding their horses, splashing in the creeks or telling stories while resting in the crooks of trees. It was hard to imagine Brandon being promised to marry anyone because, in her mind, he was still a boy of eleven with muddy feet and jam on his cheeks.