The Dead Among Us

by Tracy L. Ward

  Margaret rose from her chair just before Lady Brant entered from the hallway. She saw the look of displeasure on Lady Brant’s face by the way she scrunched up her nose and looked about the room.

  “I have not darkened these doors in many moons, Margaret. I heard your father has left town and took it upon myself to pay a call,” she said.

  Julia stood to leave the women to their visit.

  “Oh, don’t bother yourself,” Lady Brant said, waving a dismissive hand toward Julia. “Stick to your task. I won’t stay but a minute.”

  Margaret approached and received a soft embrace and brief kiss on her cheek.

  “How are you, my dear?” Lady Brant asked.

  “We are well,” Margaret answered as if by rote, not caring to take a moment to ponder her true well-being.

  “Are you truly?” Lady Brant pressed. “I worry for you, Margaret dear, all alone in this big house with your mother gone.”

  “I am not alone,” Margaret answered. “Between Father and Peter—”

  Lady Brant huffed. “Your father prefers the bottle and your brother is far too busy with hospital business.”

  “We have innumerable servants,” Margaret offered, glancing to Julia, who had returned to her work amongst the crates. She did not wish to concern Lady Brant with the true extent of her loneliness.

  “Servants are not companions,” Lady Brant answered, walking further into the room. She turned about, lingering for a moment as she took in the late Lady Marshall’s mantel and returned her attention to Margaret. “I wonder if it would be best for you to come live with me.”

  Margaret’s gaze shot to Julia, who had looked up suddenly from her task.

  “’Tis not an unusual thing,” Lady Brant pressed, no doubt seeing the look of concern on Margaret’s face. “Your mother has passed and your father cannot be bothered with you. I would see that you receive all manner of invitations. I shall have you married off before the summer is out.”

  “Lady Brant—”

  “I know what you are about to say,” Lady Brant said, raising a hand as if to halt any protest from Margaret. “You do not wish to marry at present, but you are nearing twenty-five.”

  Margaret winced at this. She was a couple years from twenty-five but the date loomed as if a prison sentence to spinsterhood. For a moment, Margaret felt resigned, accepting even, to the proposal before her. Lady Brant had been married off in a very similar fashion many years ago despite her secret yearnings to defy convention and study medicine. Lady Brant had been lucky though, of a sort. Her husband had died within the first year of their union, leaving her with a large sum of money, enough to allow her all manner of unconventional indulgence. She had always spoken out about the way she was sold to the highest bidder, and now it angered Margaret that Lady Brant thought she could do the same to her.

  Unaware of Margaret’s internal struggle, Lady Brant continued. “I have no doubt your father expects these things to happen in the committee room but us women know it happens in the ballroom. Now—”

  “Lady Brant, my answer is no.”

  The woman blinked at Margaret as if not fully comprehending what Margaret had just said. “What did you say, dear?”

  “I thank you for your interest but my answer is a decided no.”

  “You need to think about this,” Lady Brant pressed.

  “I have thought of it all I need to. I am more than happy to stay here and to live the life as providence has decreed. I will not lower myself so much as to chase eligible bachelors about town.” Margaret stole a quick glance at Julia, who smiled as she packed the crates.

  “You’d not be the first to do so,” Lady Brant answered with a slight laugh.

  “Is this the entire reason for your visit?” Margaret pressed, only somewhat regretting her solid stance.

  “Well, no,” Lady Brant admitted. She hesitated for a moment, no doubt put off by the brash manner in which her offer had been rejected. “Your mother’s charity, the Limehouse Philanthropic Society, has requested my assistance later this week. I am to perform routine health checks for some of the children, smallpox, you know. I’d like you to come assist me.”

  There was no doubt why Lady Brant had been asked. Trained in anatomy and sufficiently wealthy, Lady Brant could provide the service without any expectation of being paid.

  “Actually,” Lady Brant continued more sternly, “I expect you to assist me.”

  Margaret swallowed hard and fought back the urge to protest. She had already created division between them and was loathe to create another subject on which they would disagree. It was not the charity work that Margaret disapproved of, but rather the commanding way in which Lady Brant ordered Margaret about. Conceding to help would only serve to reinforce a behaviour that Margaret could not abide.

  Margaret nodded. “My mother would wish for me to assist.”

  Lady Brant placed the palm of her hand on Margaret’s cheek, and smiled “That she would, dear.”

  Chapter 10

  But now our right hand hath no cup remaining,

  Medical bag in hand, Ainsley walked through the front door to the Marshall home and nearly tripped over a crate which had been left to the side. Startled, Ainsley looked around to see a number of crates and furnishings lined up in the foyer. He recognized a side table that had been in his mother’s room and a large oil painting, a still life, that once hung over her mantel.

  “Margaret?” he called up the stairs, expecting her to be on the second floor.

  “Goodness, Peter, no need to shout,” Margaret answered, revealing herself. She had been crouched behind the painting, and held a brass candelabra in her hands.

  “Why are Mother’s things strewn about the foyer?” he asked, placing his bag on the floor at the foot of the stairs. He noticed an open crate in front of him and pulled a decorative bell jar from it. Inside held dried wild flowers, hardened and painted with a rare blue butterfly fastened to one of the flowers.

  “Father wishes the room repurposed,” Margaret answered with an exhale of breath. “He’s placed me at the helm for this project.” She gestured toward the display jar in his hands. “If you see something you like, you may keep it.”

  “Where will the rest of it go?” he asked, looking about at the variety of items between them.

  Using the back of her hand to pull tendrils of brown hair from her brow, Margaret glanced around. “Well, much of it belongs to the Ainsleys. I suspect they will want it returned; the valuables, in any case.”

  “Haven’t you any interest in keeping some for yourself?” Ainsley pressed. He began to move about, surveying the towers of crates as well as the odd piece of furniture scattered throughout. Movement caught his eye, and he looked to the stairs just as Julia began her descent, a small crate in her arms. Ainsley fought back an urge to relieve her of the burden, knowing the maid would refuse his help.

  “I’ve claimed what I’d like to keep,” Margaret answered, not noticing his distraction. “I don’t care to keep much. Most of the things I associate with Mother’s memory are at The Briar.” She placed the candelabra in a nearby crate, its match visible above the top. “At first, I was reluctant to touch anything, but I found a sudden urge to get to work once Lady Brant left.”

  Ainsley raised an eyebrow. “Lady Brant paid a call?”

  Margaret smiled out one side of her mouth. “I was just as surprised as you. She has a way of instilling guilt in me. Must have spurred me into action. I swear I haven’t much tolerance for her.”

  “After Lady Brant took her leave Lady Margaret blew through the room like a strong wind, Mr. Marshall,” Julia said as she walked by Ainsley. “Suddenly able to make decisions without much thought.” She placed the crate on top of another and knelt down near the one Margaret had placed the candelabra in.

  Ainsley watched as the maid began to wrap the brass in straw. She looked up, and Ainsley quickly turned away.

  “Well, yes.” Margaret placed her hands on her hips. “I fear I may hav
e gone too far.”

  Ainsley shook his head. “Certainly not. It needed to be done. Though I cringe to think of what Father has planned for those rooms.”

  Margaret shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest clue.”

  “Are you about done?” Ainsley asked. “Will you join me for a late tea?”

  Margaret gave a quick nod. “Yes. I shall wash up, though. I am nothing but dust and straw at present.”

  Ainsley nodded and made his way to the parlour while Julia disappeared along the hall to the stairs that would take her down to the kitchens.

  Ainsley made himself comfortable on the settee near the window, leaning back into the pillow and drawing his feet up onto the couch. He raised his hands to his face, rubbing eyes that hurt from the smoke of the streets. A few moments later, Margaret came into the parlour and took a chair near him. She looked just as weary as he.

  “Have you found him yet, Peter?” Margaret asked without further need to explain.

  Ainsley shook his head. “These children live their lives unnoticed and their deaths even more so. It’s like he planned it this way, banking on their irrelevance to society.”

  “That’s rather harsh,” Margaret said. “They are children.”

  “They are not children as you and I know them,” Ainsley answered, leaning farther back into his chair. “These are abandoned children, left to fend for themselves in the streets. Some as young as three years old. These are not children in hoop skirts and hair ribbons walking with their governesses in Hyde Park. They sleep in alleys and rubbish heaps, often in groups of children in similar circumstances. If they are lucky, and I use that term loosely, to have an adult looking out for them it’s usually because the child is of use picking pockets, or garnering sympathy for beggars. Half of the bodies brought to my morgue are that of children, dead from starvation, exposure, or wounds inflected on them in life.”

  Margaret shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “My apologies, but it is the truth,” Ainsley answered.

  “I am only uncomfortable with myself,” she explained, “Lady Brant asked me to assist her at the orphanage later this week. What a spoiled brat I am for behaving as if I’d rather not.”

  Ainsley smiled. “Lady Brant does not make good company. I am not surprised you would wish to stay at home.”

  Julia walked in then, her arms laden with a tray of tea. She placed the tray on a table to the side and began to pour a cup for Margaret and a cup for Ainsley.

  “I shall try to be more obliging,” Margaret said, “in this case, at the very least. I should like to do more for the orphans than just administer medicine.”

  Ainsley looked up to Julia as she handed him his cup of tea.

  The maid started when their eyes met and Ainsley’s playful grin vanished.

  “My apologies, Mr. Marshall.” She raised her hand to her chest. “Your wounds look as if they are healing well.”

  “With thanks to my nurse who dressed them,” Ainsley answered with a pleasant smile.

  Julia swallowed nervously.

  “Thank you, Julia, for the tea.”

  Julia bobbed a curtsey, retreated to gather her tray, and left the room.

  “Look at you,” Margaret said as soon as the maid had left. Ainsley looked to her, expecting some teasing, but instead he found a cold, immovable stare. The lightness of his smile faded.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked, knowing very well she meant to chide him for becoming familiar with the staff.

  “Was it not you who warned me about becoming attached?” Margaret asked, raising her cup of tea to her lips. “Although I must admit you are rather entertaining when you flirt.”

  “I don’t recall any flirting,” Ainsley answered.

  “Perhaps I shall ask Julia if she felt you were flirting,” Margaret offered.

  “Margaret!”

  A gentle laugh escaped Margaret’s lips. “Very well then,” she said, still amused. “I will allow you to have your fun. But please do not make yourself into another Daniel.”

  Ainsley shuttered and turned his gaze away. “Of that I have no interest.”

  Since the wedding, their eldest brother, Daniel, had little reason to visit Marshall House and so Julia had been spared further unwelcome attention from him. For a while, Ainsley was very protective of the newest housemaid and worried that he and his brother would have yet another topic on which to disagree. It seemed that Daniel had forgotten all about Julia and it pleased Ainsley to not have to worry about her, though he held little doubt regarding her ability to protect herself if it came to that. She had a strong right hook, if Ainsley recalled. His jaw stung at the memory of it.

  “You were saying you’d like to do more for the children,” Ainsley offered, hoping to change the topic.

  Margaret shrugged and placed her teacup on the small wooden table beside her. “Yes, now that I feel like a total miscreant.”

  Ainsley laughed. “Your words, not mine.”

  “Perhaps we should hold a fundraiser, like the ones Mother used to plan. We could have it here at the house, if Father should agree.”

  “If you schedule it soon there would be no need to ask Father,” Ainsley offered.

  “Yes,” Margaret’s voice trailed off, as she twisted her fingers in front of her. “We shall have an auction in Mother’s memory with all the proceeds benefiting the Limehouse orphanage.”

  “You’d like to auction off Mother’s things?” Ainsley asked.

  “Why not? Father told me to get rid of it. We would be selling it off or giving it away anyway and it’s not like any of us need the money more than the children.”

  Ainsley watched as Margaret’s eyes began to glisten and she turned her head to the side with the hopes he would not see.

  “I could not bear it if you did not support me, brother,” Margaret said. “I cannot tell you how much enjoyment this would give me.”

  Ainsley stood, placing his empty teacup beside Margaret’s on the table. He knelt before her, taking her hands into his and looked her directly in the eyes. “I wholeheartedly support you in everything you wish to do and I know Mother would too.”

  Margaret smiled, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She laughed as she wiped it away.

  Standing from his crouched position, Ainsley planted a kiss on her forehead. “I must to bed or I shall fall asleep in my teacup.”

  In truth, he was not interested in bed at all. He knew he could not sleep one wink for all the information that swam in his head. As soon as he was in his room, he locked the door and headed for his desk, pulling his sketchbook out from his medical bag. He sat in the limited glow of his desk lamp, flipping pages and outlining images with his fingers as if they held clues he had not seen before. For many hours he sifted through pages, replaying the scene as he had seen it when he first arrived.

  When he looked at Alice, the girl Benjamin had recognized, he wondered why he had not detected she was a mudlark. The police surgeon had not noticed it either. Other children like her had been brought to him, nearly caked in mud with bits of rubbish from the Thames in their hair and ears, and yet Alice had none of this. Nothing was noted in the report Simms brought him. She had worn less of the muck of the streets than the other victims and Ainsley had thought she was freshly bathed, though now that he saw where she slept he felt such care would have been inconceivable.

  Almost resigned to his dead end, Ainsley laid down his sketch of her, smearing his penciled notes with his thumb as he did so, and realized the rationality that had alluded him.

  Alice had been bathed by The Surgeon himself.

  Chapter 11

  No work to do,

  The next morning Ainsley woke to the sound of his bedroom door opening. He jumped, sitting up abruptly, and found that he had fallen asleep at his desk, copious notes scattered over the desktop.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Marshall,” Cutter said feebly. “His lordship has left instructions for you. I was supposed to give them to you yesterday but...”
The footman stood slightly straighter as his voice trailed off. “Sorry, sir. I had expected you would be up by now.”

  Ainsley rubbed his face and twisted his shoulders as if to stretch. “What could the old goat need of me now?” Ainsley asked with a smile. Cutter betrayed nothing as he handed Ainsley the note.

  “Shall I have Cook save you a plate of breakfast?” Cutter asked when back at the door.

  Ainsley shook his head. “No, Cutter, I’ll venture down after a time and get something of my own.”

  Cutter looked only slightly surprised at this. No doubt the London staff was getting used to Ainsley’s odd, self-sufficient behaviour. Where most, if not all, of the aristocracy enjoyed the luxuries their wealth could afford them, Ainsley avoided them and often preferred to do things on his own.

  “As you wish.” With a slight bow, Cutter left and Ainsley ripped into his father’s note.

  Peter,

  The placement agency is sending over a few candidates for butler. Please interview them in turn and prepare to give me a report on each, as well as your reasons for who you decide to hire. I shall not return to London for many months and so I expect he will be well-versed in the running of the House by the time I arrive. I have left notes from the agency in my desk drawer should you need to peruse them prior to your interviews.

  —Father

  Ainsley exhaled and ran his hand through his hair as he laid his father’s letter on the desktop. In some respects he loathed the task before him. Never in his life had he been involved with the hiring and firing of household staff and yet if Ainsley expected to take a household of his own, perhaps he’d better learn. Though he doubted who he thought was a stellar candidate would please his father. Hiring staff for himself would be one thing, hiring someone whom his father would like was an entirely different matter, especially since their previous butler had been with the family for nearly three decades.