“She stopped writing in this two years ago,” Margaret said, tossing the book back into the box. When her attention had turned to the next box Ainsley reached over and grabbed the journal, tucking it neatly into his inside breast pocket without his sister noticing. What he expected to find within its pages he did not know, but he wondered if something could be gleaned from the hand written words of his mother, even if they were from two years before.
He turned his attention to Margaret just as she was pulling a green glass bottle from beneath a mound of lace gloves. There was no label on the bottle. Margaret held it delicately, and looked up at Ainsley.
Taking the bottle, he removed the cork stopper and raised it to his nose. “Laudanum,” he said without a moment of hesitation. “Enough of my classmates were dependent on this stuff by the time we graduated. I can distinguish it at a distance.”
“Dependent?”
Ainsley nodded. “Physicians prescribe it for a number of ailments; rheumatism, female complaints and diarrhoea. It's quite common, though many are starting to see negative drawbacks. Some people can't stop using it once they’ve started. It's as if they can't function without it.” He examined the bottle, which was smaller than the palm of his hand. “Remember when she fell down the stairs a few years back? Her ankle swelled up like a potato. She always complained her foot never felt the same.”
Margaret unearthed three more bottles, slightly bigger than the first, from the same hat box. They remained quiet while the bottles clinked daintily in Margaret’s palms.
“Do you think Mother may be dependent?”
Ainsley shrugged through his expression remain somber. “I suppose anything is possible. Suppose a physician recommended this to her, for the pain. Not only does it take away her pain but it makes her feel good, perhaps really good. Perhaps she won't stop, not for anything.”
“You could make her stop. Tell her the pain is in her head. You could—” Her voice trailed away when Ainsley shook his head vehemently.
“Not if it takes her pain away. Pain cannot be measured. What could be excruciating to you may be a walk in the park for me. I could no more tell you that your pain is an illusion than you could tell me. Pain is very individual. Whatever ails Mother, I have to believe she needs this.”
Margaret closed her eyes, as if trying to banish the thought. “I don't want to believe it.”
Ainsley shook his head. “Do not rummage through other people's things if you don't want to find anything.” He began replacing all the box lids. He could feel Margaret's eyes on him, intensely staring as if he held all the answers to the questions she had. As the older brother he had always been expected to guide her, to tell her what she needed to know, but in this case he was just as lost as she. Never had he suspected their mother of being a regular laudanum user and he refused to believe it now.
“Where could she be, Peter?”
Ainsley could not meet his sister's gaze. “If what you say is true, if Mother has taken a lover—” Margaret's lips thinned into a defiant grimace. Ainsley raised a hand to calm her anger. “And I understand you saw what you saw, then she probably ran off with him and is still in the city somewhere.”
“Doesn't she understand the pain she is causing?” Margaret asked.
Ainsley shrugged.
“Still think Father has something to do with it?” Margaret asked, her tone suggesting she had been vindicated.
Ainsley nearly laughed “I wouldn't put it past him, if that's what you mean. Suppose he found out about Mother's affair, what do you imagine he would do?”
Margaret's shoulders slumped. “Peter, you can't mean that.” Margaret's defiance faded away and her gaze shifted. “But Father would never—” her voice trailed off, her conviction lost.
“I hope I am wrong, but I have to entertain the possibility that I could be right.” Ainsley stood then, and walked to Margaret. He planted a kiss on her forehead and squeezed her shoulder as he continued past.
“Peter?”
He turned at the door and looked to his sister who sat on the edge of the bed.
“What are we supposed to do?” she asked quietly.
“We wait. Something will turn up. She will come to her senses or someone will find them out. But for now, we wait.”
Margaret nodded, knowing his words to be true.
“Get some sleep, Margaret. And we will tackle this in the morning.”
Ainsley left her, silent and staring at nothing in particular, and retreated to his room down the hall. The staff had brought his trunk to his room and everything had been unpacked, either sent to the laundry or placed in its proper location. His room, like his mother’s, looked like it hadn't been inhabited in weeks. Everything was crisp and clean, nothing out of place.
He went straight to his bedside table, and opened the top drawer. He pulled out a glass tumbler and the small bottle of whiskey he had stored inside. Gulp after gulp he drank, only stopping to refill his empty glass. Soon his bottle was empty and his glass as well but it did not matter. His task was accomplished. He did not shed one tear that night.
Chapter 4
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Breakfast was somber with only the occasional clinking of silverware on porcelain shattering the silence. Ainsley watched as Margaret picked at her food, eating very little, but chose not to say anything. His father too, usually so assured and arrogant, seemed humbled by his wife's disappearance. He didn't even touch the morning's paper that had been positioned beside his place setting at the table.
When Lord Marshall cleared his throat he startled both Ainsley and Margaret. “Peter, do you intend to head to the hospital this morning?” he asked.
Ainsley gave a quick glance to Margaret, unsure of what exactly their father wanted to hear. It was no secret that his father despised his chosen profession. Ainsley was not in a mood to argue yet again. “Yes, Father,” Ainsley answered, somewhat defensively. “I will walk over after breakfast.”
Ainsley saw Margaret pull her hands from the table and place them on her lap. She looked to her plate. It seemed she too was preparing for a fierce argument.
“Won't you take a carriage?” Lord Marshall asked. He reached for his teacup with one hand, and pulled his paper closer to him with the other.
No argument? No appeal to remain with family on such a day? Both men had fought relentlessly for months regarding Ainsley's new position at the hospital. Had Lord Marshall finally conceded? Dumbfounded, Ainsley hesitated and stared at his father, who simply raised his eyebrows as he looked at him over the raised teacup.
“No, I prefer the walk,” was all Ainsley could muster.
Lord Marshall shrugged. “Very well.” He placed his teacup on its saucer and finally opened his newspaper.
Ainsley looked to his sister across the table. Swallowing, she shook her head bewildered. She hadn't expected that response either.
“Your brother Daniel has bought a house in town,” Lord Marshall continued, oblivious to his children's confusion. “You should stop by before you come home. Let him give you the grand tour. It's a lovely spot.”
“I had not realized he was surveying the market,” Ainsley answered.
“You've had other worries.” Lord Marshall gave a forced smile.
Billis approached the breakfast table and began taking away the dishes, passing them to the footman, Cutter, who waited behind him with a trolley. Cutter looked like a pickpocket in comparison to Billis' refined aura of dignity. “Thank you Billis.”
“Of course, my lord.” The butler gave a slight bow, and walked behind his master's chair to retrieve Ainsley's plate. Ainsley nodded in thanks.
“Your brother has been working hard.” Lord Marshall continued.
Ainsley saw a slight smile tickle the corner of his father's lips as he spoke.
“He has much to tell you.”
“Very well,” Ainsley agreed. “I will stop by this afternoon. What is the ad
dress?”
“Oh,” Lord Marshall snapped his fingers toward Billis and Cutter who had nearly exited the room. “Billis give Peter the address of Daniel's new house.”
Billis bowed at the waist again. “Right away, sir.”
Lord Marshall smiled, as if basking in the command he held over the household. “A good man, Billis is.”
Margaret nodded, giving Ainsley a smirk across the table. “Yes, Father he is.”
Their father said this often and none of the Marshall children had ever been allowed to disagree with him. Once, when Ainsley was young, he tried to have the butler fired for laughing at him. He was playing a very silly game of some sort and when Billis entered the room he chuckled at the boy's antics. Indignant as young, privileged children often are, Ainsley called for his immediate dismissal. Lord Marshall would not hear a word of it, and instructed Ainsley's nanny to give him a few switches once she had removed him to the nursery.
No one was allowed to disrespect Billis, at least not in front of Lord Marshall. The two men had been in each other’s lives since they were young adults. Over the years Billis had become less of a servant and more of a confidant. He had known all of the children since birth and watched over them as if they were his own. There was a genuine camaraderie there, between Billis and Lord Marshall. Of all the servants Lord Marshall trusted Billis the most.
“Absolutely, Father,” Ainsley agreed warmly, “We are lucky he has stayed with us all these years.”
In the hallway, as Ainsley put on his coat, Billis appeared with a folded piece of paper in his hand. “The address, sir.”
Ainsley smiled, taking the paper and placing it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Billis.”
“And where are you off to today, young Mister Marshall?” Billis asked as he straightened Peter’s coat.
“Why the hospital, of course.”
“The hospital? You are not ill are you, sir?”
Ainsley smiled. This had become a standard jest between the young man and family servant. Although not allowed to refer to Ainsley's occupation directly, they flirted with the idea and played it as an inside joke. “Not in the slightest.”
Billis opened the door and Ainsley walked through to the cold London street. Momentarily pausing on the stoop, he pulled his jacket in tighter around his torso and buttoned his collar against the December cold. A thin layer of snow dusted the scenery and trace amounts still cascaded from the clouds.
His usual walk to work was short and that day it felt even shorter. Each female with chestnut hair reminded him of his mother. A governess holding the hand of a small child. The wife of a cobbler sweeping the front pavement to their storefront. A genteel lady walking arm in arm with a man in a beaver top hat. None of them were her, of course. Ainsley doubted his mother would remain so close to home, knowing everyone would be looking for her. If she had run away he knew she'd be far away in Brighton or Bristol, and not flaunting her new life for all of London to see. She was reckless, childish even, but not stupid. Knowing this did not stop his mind from filling in the details, and conjuring her everywhere he went.
Truth be told, he was worried for her. Worried for their family as a whole. His father was behaving strangely, far too accommodating and far less confrontational than Ainsley was used to. It felt as if a lot had changed during the time that he was away and as much as Ainsley complained about the way his father lorded over everyone and the way his parents always seemed to be at odds, he missed the predictability of it.
St. Thomas’ Hospital was brisk with activity by the time he arrived. He slipped by a huddle of nurses at the main doors who were no doubt taking the chance to imbibe a hidden drink or smoke a communal cigarette before heading out to mop up vomit or redress festering wounds. He did not envy their jobs and it was clear why no respectable girl stepped forward to fill them. They were often reformed prostitutes and show girls. Very rarely did he meet one whom he did not suspect to have some sordid past.
Some watched him as he passed. He could sense their eyes following him and when he tipped his hat in greeting one seemed to swoon.
“What do ya ‘tink?” he heard another sneer. “Ya ‘tink he's gonna pay any mind ta ye?”
Ainsley did not turn to see who it was who had spoken but he heard nothing more as he walked through the hospital doors.
He was met by the unmistakable smell of decay and rot. In a distant room he could hear a man wailing, no doubt in agony over losing a limb or a finger or perhaps two. Or it might be gangrene seeping through his appendages, and oozing from a wound. Ainsley wondered how long it would take before someone doused the patient with laudanum just so the other patients could rest in relative peace. He headed for the main stairwell and stopped when he saw his school chum, Jonas Davies walking towards him. Jonas was a surgeon as well but the last thing Ainsley heard was that Jonas had been relieved of his position at the university.
“Jonas?” Ainsley said as soon as he saw him.
Jonas was heading his way surveying a stack of papers he held in his hands. When he looked up, he seemed much less surprised to see Ainsley than Ainsley had been to see him. “Good morning, Peter,” he said, a smile touching the corners of his lips.
“What are you doing here?” Ainsley asked.
“I'm working under Dr. Lehmann, assisting him in surgery.” Jonas seemed to beam as he spoke.
In the few days since he had last seen him, Jonas had secured a job with one of the hospitals most celebrated surgeons, and Ainsley had no doubt Jonas would quickly be one himself.
“Dr. Lehmann?” Ainsley could not hide his surprise.
Dr. Lehmann was a revered surgeon, nearly the top in London, which was amusing since he was an immigrant from Germany. Despite living in England for more than twenty years, he still held a thick German accent, a condition that annoyed doctors and patients alike who could not understand some of the things he said. His talent redeemed him though and had rapidly elevated him to his spot as head of surgery.
Ainsley had once envisioned himself as the surgeon's assistant and then full-fledged surgeon but his own methodology was far too slow. A surgeon needed to be quick, even at the cost of accuracy, both things Ainsley could not do. He was accurate to a fault and painfully slow, and that was why the morgue suited him best.
“We happened upon each other yesterday,” Jonas explained, “when he was signaling a cab and I offered him mine. He remembered me from the reception at the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons held a few months back.”
Ainsley nodded, remembering the night and how he glowed arrogantly amongst his fellow graduates who had yet to secure such a stable position as he. Perhaps he had always felt it would be that way, him rising to the top so easily, his parent’s money and the confidence it gave him opening doors that would forever be closed to the other boys raised to be tradesmen.
Ainsley was unable to hide his discomfort at the idea that Jonas’ career could one day eclipse his own, and he scowled at the sheer luck that had found his friend. Jonas on the other hand seemed to relish the thought that he could be in a far superior position to Ainsley's before long. Their friendly competition from school had followed them into adulthood, only perhaps it wasn't so friendly anymore.
“And so he hired you?” Ainsley's mind was reeling and he could not hide his shock. “Hiring an assistant sight unseen?”
“Don't be so arrogant,” Jonas said sharply. “You are not the only one who comes highly recommended.”
Ainsleys shrugged, preparing to apologize but nothing came. He opened his mouth and closed it again.
“Apology accepted,” Jonas said, presuming the words that failed his friend. “Your mother, has she returned yet?” he asked, wisely changing the subject.
“No,” Ainsley answered. “How did you know she was missing?”
“An inspector showed up at my door last night. He asked about my affiliations with your family.” Jonas's face turned solemn. “Wondered how someone in my trade could associate with an Ear
l's family.” Jonas slipped a hand into his pocket, coyly touching the corner of his mouth with his tongue. He was trying to make it seem like he was unaffected by the insinuation, Ainsley realized. “He wanted to know the circumstances by which we met.”
Ainsley swallowed nervously. He had been successful in keeping his two lives separate for nearly four years, acting the part of gentleman's son or acclaimed morgue surgeon as circumstances dictated. Jonas was his only bridge between the two lives he led and he realized for the first time that his mother's disappearance could be the undoing of it all.
Ainsley looked about the hospital hall, noticing a porter at the farthest end sitting at a small desk and one nurse just beside him. Neither one was close enough to hear their conversation. “And what did you tell him?” he asked, turning his attention back to Jonas.
“I told him it was doctor patient privilege and left it at that.”
“Did he ask anything else?” Ainsley could feel his mouth go dry.
“He asked about Margaret, and I said she had come to me, knowing I was your friend, and asked for my help—”
“Which you were more than happy to oblige,” Ainsley inserted.
Jonas pressed his lips together and tilted his head slightly to the side. “I did it out of concern for your family, Peter. My feelings for Margaret came after.”
Ainsley nodded. “Of course,” he said.
“I am only telling you this so you are aware. He is suspicious of your family. He said he believed Margaret to be holding back something and—”
“Jonas, you did not tell him what happened in Tunbridge Wells, about mother...did you?” Ainsley pointed a ridged finger at his friend. His temper surprising even him.
“No, of course not,” Jonas hissed in return.
Ainsley lowered his hand and glanced around them again. The hall was becoming busy with people and they would need to be more guarded.
“Peter, I am well aware of the possible scandal,” Jonas whispered. “I may be a commoner but I know what this would do to you, to all of you.”
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