Ainsley involuntarily smiled at this. Would Evelyn marry Daniel if she knew his family's secrets?
“Your secret is not mine to tell,” Ainsley answered in a reassuring tone.
The door opened behind them and they both turned to watch as Margaret slipped in. “Was that Inspectors Simms?” she asked. Her eyes found Evelyn in the chair, evidence of distress bore on her face and Margaret's eyes softened. After a slight pause, and a sideways glance to Ainsley, Margaret spoke. “What did they tell you about Mother?”
Ainsley stepped between them preventing Margaret from moving closer and saying more, perhaps revealing their family's secret.
“Margaret, Evelyn has just found out her cousin was murdered,” he explained.
Margaret stammered. “Oh...my. How dreadful.”
Ainsley turned to Evelyn, who seemed too engrossed in her own tragedy to have noticed Margaret's slip about Lady Marshall.
“Why don't you take a minute,” he offered his hand and assisted Evelyn to her feet. “Margaret can help you freshen up in your rooms, if you like.”
Evelyn nodded feebly and slipped her arm into Margaret's. At the door she turned, peering at Ainsley over her shoulder.
“Thank you, Peter,” she said with a demure smile.
The pair exited and Ainsley remained, a hand shoved in his pocket, the other scratching his chin and jawline.
Her initial tactic was to lie to both detectives, he remembered, but she had confessed to him quickly enough once they removed themselves from the room. His position in society, not to mention his relationship to her future husband, would deem him the most undesirable confidant. She could not possibly know his involvement in the case, if she did she would be just as wary of him as she rightfully was of Wright and Simms.
Ainsley drew closer to the side table, a decanter nearly empty of port remained along with three crystal glasses. He poured the remaining contents from one into another and managed to serve himself nearly a full glass from the decanter. He drank eagerly while picturing Margaret and Evelyn preening themselves before a mirror. No doubt Margaret would apply a certain amount of powder to hide Evelyn's tear stained cheeks.
How could Ainsley know if Evelyn's story was true? She could have very well been present during the girl's murder. The body was positioned on the bed in such a loving way, someone close to her, riddled with guilt no doubt, must have laid her out so thoughtfully. Could Evelyn posses the strength to move such dead weight? Of course. Ainsley grew angry with himself for such a thought. Recent experience had taught him that women were just as capable of murder as men.
His mind wandered, drawn back to Picklow and the young woman, Lillian, he had met there. He wondered how she fared, and then the guilt hit him. It was a feeling that he had evaded for some time since returning to London. Of all the times for these notions of guilt and responsibility to burst forth it had to be then, when he should very well be dancing, asking each young maid for a turn as his duty required. Instead he was stiff with remorse, cloistered in the study holding back what could be a flood of tears were he not careful.
One more gulp finished his port and he placed the glass on the table. He straightened his evening coat on his shoulders and checked the position of his tie, all the while steadying his breathing, pushing back any thought of Lillian, her sisters and the horrors he witnessed while away from London. It was done, he told himself. They could not be saved.
Chapter 16
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Margaret was already dancing by the time Ainsley emerged from the study. Evelyn had taken some time to allow her eyes to dry but had anyone looked closely they would have seen evidence that she had been crying. Thankfully, most of the guests were dancing, drinking champagne or engrossed in jovial conversations so no one noticed. Ainsley felt Evelyn squeeze his hand as she walked by him before drifting again into the crowd. He could see her greeting people and smiling without even a hint of the anxiety and fear that had engulfed her moments ago.
A footman appeared beside him with a silver tray adorned with flutes of champagne. Ainsley took one, though he cared little for that form of drink, and downed it rather suddenly.
“What did the Inspectors want with her?”
Ainsley turned to see Daniel at his side, smelling of cigar smoke and brandy. He spoke softly enough so no one would hear, though Ainsley wondered if he also heard a hint of indifference.
“You knew they were interviewing her and you didn't come?” Ainsley hissed, though quietly. He glanced behind them, taking note of who may have been near.
Daniel shrugged dismissively. “Why should I? She's my fiancée, not my wife.”
The pair bowed slightly as Lord and Lady Guilford walked in front of them. Lady Guilford, a cantankerous old goat, waved her lace fan before her face and only smirked as she paraded by.
“Sod-faced old crow,” Daniel muttered. He tipped his fluted glass to his mouth. He turned to Ainsley who had already finished his glass and was acquiring another. “Father has asked that we keep an eye on Mother.”
Ainsley drew the glass to his mouth eagerly but found the contents unsatisfying. He could not very well be everyone's secret keeper, not without something a might bit stronger.
Seeing Ainsley's face Daniel laughed. “Come,” he said, tapping Ainsley on the chest, “follow me.”
Ainsley followed his brother through the hall, dancing to their left and boisterous conversations on their right, until they were on the empty back veranda, the cold night making visible wisps of their breath. Ainsley watched as his brother pulled a bottle from behind one of the planters. “Evelyn's brother, Will, told me this is part of his secret stash.” Pulling the cork, he offered Ainsley the first drink.
Whiskey.
“A likeable fellow.” Ainsley said as his brother drank.
Daniel shrugged. “Likeable enough. Though I confess I don't plan on spending that much time with him so it hardly matters.”
Ainsley nodded accepting the bottle again.
“Found my secret stash, huh?”
Ainsley turned to see a short man approaching them from the hall doors, a wide, amused grin decorating his face. He offered a hand to Ainsley who shook it briskly. “Will Weatherall,” the man said. Even his words seemed to smile.
“Peter Marshall.” As they shook hands Ainsley noticed Will kept his other hand in his pocket.
“My sister says you may be her new favourite brother,” Will said warmly, accepting the bottle Daniel offered him.
“I doubt that,” Ainsley answered, abashed.
“It is rather unfortunate those Inspectors needed to come this evening,” Will said, shifting his gaze from Daniel to Ainsley. “We are grateful for your fast action in getting them sequestered before too many guests arrived. My father tells me you are a man who commands and others follow. This is a good trait.”
Ainsley did not know what to say. He looked to Daniel who seemed unaffected by the praise being offered him.
“What did they want any way?” Will asked.
“Yes, Peter, you never did answer my question,” Daniel chimed in, his consonants blending together as he spoke. His eyes drifted, closing slightly before popping open again.
Peter looked around the veranda and then towards the door to the party, where they could here laughter and glasses clinking, just to be sure there was no one else about.
“A cousin, Clara Buxton, was found dead, I'm afraid. Murdered. The Inspectors had reason to believe Evelyn may have had contact with her recently.”
Will laughed openly. “I highly doubt it. We have not seen the woman for... many years. I could scarcely say what she looked like anymore.”
Ainsley shrugged. “Evelyn confirmed that point, though the shock of hearing of her cousin's death was a little too much to bear.”
“She hardly knew the woman,” Daniel said, “I can not believe she feels much for her at all.”
Suddenly the alcohol was doing the tri
ck. Ainsley could feel the tension slipping from his body, actually slipping from his fingertips and toes. The three of them drank the entire contents of the bottle as they stood on the veranda over looking the family's back garden.
“Follow me, gentlemen,” Will suddenly blurted out. “You strike me as the sort that will appreciate what I have to show you.”
A few moments later, they were in Will's room on the second floor with the door closed. Ainsley and his brother watched as Will went straight to the table beside his bed and opened the drawer. He pulled out a small, wooden box and laid it on the bed. Opening the latch he lifted the lid to reveal a gleaming silver pistol cushioned by a dark blue, silk cloth.
Both Ainsley and Daniel's eyes lit up at the sight of such a newly minted handgun. They drew closer as Will pulled it from the box and held it out for them in his open palms.
“Go ahead, take it,” Will said, nodding toward Daniel who was showing a keen interest.
Daniel grabbed the wooden handle and held it close as he ran his fingers over the engraved brass that adorned the sides. From his vantage point Ainsley could see a marking of G & J Deane, and recognized the gun maker to Prince Albert.
“I had it commissioned months ago,” Will explained, “I received a message yesterday that it was ready. Father would not allow me to wear it this evening,” he said with a shrug, “but I intend to always have it on me.”
“Peter, have you ever seen one so detailed?” Daniel asked, tilting it toward Ainsley.
“How does it shoot?” Ainsley asked, preferring to be impressed by its practical application.
Positioning himself ahead of the others, Daniel raised the pistol with an extended arm and levelled his line of sight with the opposite side of the room.
Will shrugged, “Haven't had a chance to test it. My step-mother hates guns and I need to wait until we are in open country. Though for the price I paid for it, I don't see how it could miss.” He chuckled slightly and accepted the gun when Daniel handed it back to him. He placed it in its box and tucked it away in the drawer. “You should consider getting one Daniel, especially with my sister to protect.”
Daniel nodded but Ainsley was weary. Exactly when did these aristocrats expect to need such weaponry?
When Ainsley finally descended the stairs he caught Margaret's eye on the other side of the room. She was speaking with Lady Brant, who appeared to be rambling without pausing for breath, and he made his way over to them.
“Peter!” Lady Brant grabbed him by the arms and leaned to the side allowing him to plant a slight kiss on her cheek. “I was just speaking with Margaret about our scheme. Seems to have worked, no?”
For a moment Ainsley hadn't the faintest clue what she meant until he saw the disparaging look on Margaret’s face and he remembered the discussion they had at breakfast the day before.
“Everything has worked out then. Your mother has returned and everyone will think she was only out of town for a few days.” Lady Brant looked overly pleased with herself. She patted Margaret's hand gently.
“I fear we have made things worse,” Margaret confessed. “Who leaves and returns from Edinbourgh in three days?”
“Four,” Ainsley offered. His comment only incited raised eyebrows from Margaret.
“Don't you think people will wonder? Ask questions?”
Lady Brant smiled and waved off Margaret's concern. “No one pays that much attention.”
Margaret sighed heavily and gave a look to Ainsley. They both knew how much attention was paid to such details. Lady Brant may not concern herself with the comings and goings of society folk but there were individuals within society who were deeply concerned about the lives of others. There was no telling who would be keeping tally of Lady Marshall's returns and departures.
“Let us hope the family can avoid any further debacles,” Ainsley offered with a forced smile. “We can repair with time.”
“There's the spirit,” Lady Brant said enthusiastically. “Nothing repairs scandal like a glorious wedding. I heard Lady Weatherall say your brother and Evelyn would like to marry within the fortnight.”
Margaret looked startled at the idea. “So soon?”
Lady Brant laughed. “Is it not the bride’s prerogative to choose the date?”
“But it seems so sudden.” Margaret looked to Ainsley clearly in distress but there could be nothing he could do. “Is it wise?”
“I say have it done with,” Lady Brant leaned in to Margaret and Peter and lowered her voice, “before the girl gets cold feet, if you understand me.” Lady Brant waved to a passing couple, “Excuse me, my dears,” she said and slipped off in pursuit of them leaving Ainsley and Margaret dumbfounded at the revelation.
Surveying the room, Ainsley could see Evelyn and Daniel standing together smiling with guests he did not recognized.
“Why do you suppose she wishes to wed so quickly?” Margaret pressed, careful to keep her voice low.
Ainsley shrugged. “I haven't—”
“Unhand me!”
Lady Marshall was heard before she was seen being escorted down the main stairs, one of the Weatherall's male servants keeping a vice-like grip on her arm, more to keep her from falling down the stairs than it was to guide her. Lady Marshall struggled relentlessly trying to throw off the man's assistance. “I can do it!” she slurred.
Pulling against the servant Lady Marshall lost her balance and staggered.
It happened fast. Ainsley, who had been inching toward the bottom of the stairs to assist, had no time to react. Lady Marshall slipped and fell three stairs before stopping, having grabbed on to the handrail. A minor fall compared to the ten steps or more that would have brought her to the bottom. Her cry of pain rang out loudly throughout the party and everything went quiet as all of the guests turned to the staircase. Lady Marshall was injured somewhere beneath her bulbous hoop skirt.
Ainsley and Margaret were quick to come to her side, as was the servant who had tried earnestly to prevent that very thing from happening.
“Mother,” Margaret cried, grasping Lady Marshall's hand. Margaret recoiled after her mother gave her a sneer but she did not release her hand. Ainsley went to the opposite side. The normally dignified Lady Marshall hissed, pointing at her left leg. “My ankle,” she said, writhing from the pain.
Ainsley went one stair below and found his way beneath the many layers of crinoline, hoops and fabric to her injured ankle. Sliding a slender shoe from her foot, he felt her ankle and lower leg, watching her reaction closely as he manipulated and pressed it.
“I am so sorry, my lady,” the servant said, kneeling beside them.
“It's all right,” Margaret said with a smile. “You were trying your best.”
“What were you doing upstairs?” Ainsley asked Lady Marshall, as quietly as he could muster.
For a moment it appeared as if his mother had not heard him. She looked down at her leg with a look of deep concern but when her eyes flickered up to him and then back down Ainsley knew she had heard him and was simply refusing to answer. Ainsley looked to the Weatherall's servant, who swallowed hard.
“I found her in Miss Weatherall's room,” he said sheepishly. “She was opening the wardrobe and drawers, my lord.”
Ainsley had little doubt as to whether the servant’s words were true. Lady Marshall gave the poor man a look that ought to have turned him to stone.
“Mother!” Margaret's voice nearly cracked from the shock of it.
“I was just looking around,” Lady Marshall said with a shrug, as if the proceedings bored her immensely. “I wanted to know the trollop your father engaged my favourite son to without my consent.”
Ainsley failed to hide his surprise, though he tried. Did she say favourite son? Ainsley saw Margaret's apologetic gaze and shook it off. It was obvious their mother was drunk, and influenced heavily by her laudanum. It also became rather obvious that her fall had brought on a crowd who waited eagerly for word on her condition at the bottom of the stairs.
“Only Evelyn's”
A muffled groan escaped both Margaret and Ainsley's lips. Ainsley slid his head into his hand and rubbed at his temples. She held no remorse whatsoever. Suddenly all sympathy he had for her left him, influenced heavily by her slight against him. He could not understand how Daniel could be her favourite when it had been Ainsley who had kept her company at The Briar for all those years. Daniel was not the one who defended her when everyone else said such awful things regarding her character. In fact, where was Daniel now while she writhed in pain and public humiliation?
Perhaps Father was right, Ainsley thought. Mother was a blight on the family record causing embarrassment and discord wherever she went. In his youth he thought her fun loving and jubilant, but perhaps he had been wrong. At that time their levels of maturity mirrored each other but now Ainsley was grown and finally seeing her antics as simply that, and he had far less desire to join in.
A murmur rose up in the crowd. Lord Marshall and Daniel emerged from those gathered but remained at the bottom of the stairs as if establishing their distance.
“Nothing's broken,” Ainsley said harshly, pulling his mother to her feet abruptly. “Time to go home, Mother.”
With the Weatherall's servant on one side and Ainsley on the other, they guided Lady Marshall down the stairs. Ainsley saw his father whisper into Daniel's ear and his brother left while Lord Marshall remained, looking ill-amused and somewhat hostile, he downed the remnants of a drink and thrust his empty glass toward a nearby valet. Ainsley struggled against the near dead weight of his mother, who clung to him, her least favourite son, as he tried to assist her down the stairs.
Just as Ainsley and Lady Marshall came to the bottom of the stairs Lord Marshall turned to the crowd. “My wife is all right,” he said, giving the guests an easy grin. “We will take her home.” As the crowd tapered off, Lord Weatherall appeared beside them and Ainsley's father turned and took his hand. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Weatherall,”
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