The Dead Among Us

by Tracy L. Ward

  Jonas bowed in her direction, giving an unflinching stare, but Margaret quickly turned her gaze as another guest entered the doorway. Cutter held his hand out for his coat and hat but the stranger grabbed it in a handshake and shook it vigorously. “Good day, sir,” the man said.

  Margaret stepped forward to greet him with her hand outstretched. “Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, thankful for the diversion from Jonas.

  “Theodore Fenton,” Ainsley snarled from behind her.

  Confused, Margaret looked from her brother to the man who just entered. A devilish smile spread over the stranger’s face as he took in Ainsley. He tipped his hat. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Specialist?”

  With guests continuing to mill about in the foyer, Margaret was not interested in creating a scene. Whatever Ainsley’s issue was with the gentleman, it would have to wait until after the auction. “Mr. Fenton, you are most—”

  “Unwelcome,” Ainsley said as he pushed past his sister. “He works for the Daily Telegraph and Courier, Margaret.”

  “A journalist?” Margaret could not piece together how he had received an invitation to her auction.

  “I heard tell of your contributions to the children and I want to cover it for our morning edition.”

  “My little auction?” Margaret was flattered, though the presence of the press made her more than a little uneasy. She had hoped to host the event without word reaching her father.

  Theodore twisted his moustache between his thumb and forefinger. “Why not?”

  “He’s been writing garbage about the children, false speculations and fallacies,” Ainsley said, his rising temper evident. “He’s not here to publicize your charity event. He’s here to gather salacious details.”

  Theodore feigned surprised, sucking in air quickly. “You wound me. My intentions are nothing of the sort.”

  “Out with you,” Ainsley said taking the man under the arm. “This is a private event and you were not invited.”

  “Peter, is that really necessary?”

  Ainsley shot Margaret a stern look, a look that reminded her of their father.

  Within seconds, Theodore was flanked by Jonas on the opposite side of Ainsley. Together, the pair was an imposing force against Theodore, who raised his hands in surrender. “Very well,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t be frightened, my lady, ’tis not the first time.” Theodore offered her a smile and turned at the increasing pressure from the men surrounding him. “Perhaps we shall speak another time.”

  Margaret retreated to where Evelyn stood, and glanced to the handful of guests still loitering in the lobby. She flashed them a defeated smile.

  When the men returned, she saw Ainsley give Cutter explicit instructions not to let him through the doors and then Ainsley turned to Margaret. With a cock of his head he implored her to follow him into their father’s study. Once inside, he closed the door and approached her with a hardened expression. “You will not speak to that man again.”

  “Who are you to say who I may and may not speak to?” Margaret challenged. She kept her voice light for the sake of the guests just beyond the door but her insides burned with anger. Her brother had never spoken commands to her and she was not about to let it become a habit.

  “Margaret, do as I say,” Ainsley said. His tone became hushed as he struggled for control.

  “Who are you, my father?” she asked with contempt.

  “You wouldn’t listen to me if I were,” Ainsley replied. Clearly agitated, Ainsley went for the door.

  “This is about your true identity, isn’t it?” Margaret said quickly, preventing him from leaving. “This Mr. Fenton has found out who you really are and now he’s holding it over you.”

  His hand lingering on the doorknob, Ainsley avoided her gaze.

  “Or you are afraid he’ll try,” Margaret pressed. “You could tell everyone of your own accord. He’d have no power over you if you did.”

  “And what of Father?” Ainsley asked. “Hasn’t he suffered enough embarrassment?”

  Margaret swallowed.

  “Let me handle this, Margaret,” Ainsley said, “in my own way.”

  Once beyond the door Ainsley donned a wide smile and eager handshake. Margaret dallied a moment longer, watching how her brother slipped into the crowd with ease. All the world’s a stage, she reminded herself, and we are but merely players in it.

  Chapter 23

  In all your music, our pathetic minor

  Your ears shall cross;

  To Margaret’s relief, Ainsley accepted his duty as auctioneer and if she did not know any better she’d think he was grateful for the tasking. “Anything for Mother,” he said, when she asked. He meant it as a peace offering, she was sure. He had given her a kiss on the cheek before heading to the far end of the dining hall, where a podium had been set up. Cutter, Maxwell, and Julia were at the ready. They conferred briefly. It was Julia mostly who knew how the evening would be run. She and Margaret had already discussed that Cutter and Maxwell would bring in items from the library, in the order in which the tags dictated. Ainsley would encourage the crowd and announce finals bids while Julia would keep a record of each item’s winning bid and collect the payment. A small desk had been placed to the side for her tasks and Margaret beamed at how refined her lady’s maid looked while seated behind it.

  With the food trays along the side wall plundered, everyone now filled the seats set in rows, eagerly murmuring to each other about items they had their eyes on.

  Margaret felt a hand touch her elbow and turned to see Lady Brant. “Let us sit together, dear.”

  Margaret obliged, and slipped into a seat toward the back, where she could watch everything. At the podium, Ainsley sought her out from the crowd, and she gave the nod.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My sister, Lady Margaret Marshall, and I would like to welcome you to our auction to benefit the Limehouse Philanthropic Society Foundling Home. Margaret, would you please stand?” With his palm to the ceiling, his hand indicated where Margaret hid and in unison the room turned to look at her, some craning their necks to see.

  Surprised, Margaret looked to Lady Brant, who encouraged her to do as he said. “Stand, my dear,” she said.

  Reluctantly, Margaret stood, gave a slight curtsey and secretly cursed her brother for making her the centre of attention. She slid back into her seat just before her cheeks turned crimson.

  “My sister has been working tirelessly for this evening’s event. Following in our departed mother’s footsteps, Margaret has dedicated her time and energy to the children of Limehouse and this event, and the good that comes of it is entirely her doing.”

  Ainsley lowered his gaze, pausing briefly before continuing. “Recent events have shone a light on the everyday struggles of these children. I have no doubt you have read the papers and heard of the heinous atrocities being committed against these children.” The room stirred as people spoke to their neighbours about what Ainsley had just said. “Without the orphanage, these children would starve. Mrs. Glendora Holliwell provides them with a safe haven, a place to find food, shelter, and if you have seen that woman with her wards, you would know she also gives them love. It is our duty to help her with the work she performs by opening our hearts and our pocketbooks. When you place your bids you are providing an orphaned child with a hot meal, a new dress, and renewed hope. Remember this and they will remember you.”

  Margaret beamed and then Lady Brant beside her began to clap ferociously. Margaret followed and soon the entire room roared with applause for Ainsley’s dedication. Always a good orator, Ainsley continued to impress Margaret. She could never understand why he did not wish to follow their father into the House of Lords, as Ainsley seemed to take naturally to it.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” Ainsley shouted to get over the dying fanfare. “Up first is a beautiful mantel clock...”

  It had begun and Margaret was so proud. Hands flew up with each item and many times when the bidding be
gan to stale a renewed competitiveness erupted, driving the bids higher and higher. Ainsley and his helpers moved items along as quickly as they could, a snail’s pace compared to standard auctions, but no one seemed to care. As Margaret scanned the room, she saw that everyone appeared to be having a good time. Her eye caught Jonas, leaning against the wall at the back and she realized he had been looking at her. His expression solemn, almost apologetic. Margaret turned quickly, raising her chin slightly so he would see how unsympathetic she was.

  “And now we have a hair comb.”

  Margaret’s attention snapped to the front as her brother spoke.

  “It’s silver with some beautiful green and blue gems. I’m not sure if you can see it at the back.” Margaret watched as he handed it to Maxwell, who proceeded down the aisle, displaying Lady Marshall’s hair comb. Margaret gasped for air as he walked past and she placed her gloved hand over her chest. It was one of the items she had set aside. She had intended to keep it for herself. As a girl watching her mother preen in front of the looking glass, Margaret would hold that comb in her open palm until Violetta reached for it. It was her mother’s favourite and Margaret had intended to keep it for her own.

  “What is it, Margaret?” Lady Brant asked.

  “I wished to keep that,” Margaret answered softly. “It wasn’t meant to be auctioned.”

  “Signal your brother then,” Lady Brant said, shifting in her seat and waving her hand slightly to call Ainsley’s attention.

  “It’s okay,” Margaret said with resignation. “Bidding has started. Not much I can do now.”

  “But should we bid on it at least?” Lady Brant asked.

  Margaret searched the room and discovered three people bidding for the comb. Bethany Brundell, a man unknown to Margaret, and Jonas Davies. She groaned and turned away. She would have rather anyone else have it if she couldn’t, but certainly not Jonas Davies, who most likely intended to take it to his new trollop.

  Lady Brant’s hand shot up. “Sixty pounds,” she said determinedly. The room stirred, no doubt shocked at the large sum offered for such a small trinket.

  “Please don’t, Lady Brant,” Margaret pleaded as she grabbed for her hand.

  “Seventy pounds.”

  The attendees turned, looking over their shoulder toward Jonas, who stood smugly against the back wall, a few paces from where Margaret and Lady Brant sat.

  “Does he not understand I am trying to win your mother’s comb back?” Lady Brant hissed.

  “Do stop,” Margaret pleaded. “I dare say it’s a sum he cannot afford.”

  “Then he should leave it to those of us who can,” Lady Brant answered haughtily.

  “Trust me, Lady Margaret,” Jonas said, “I can afford it.” He gave her a look of annoyance and his jaw tightened as he looked toward Ainsley at the front.

  Suddenly, Margaret felt ashamed for what she had said. It had not been her intention to insult him and the guilt plagued her until she remembered how he had hurt her. By the time Margaret looked up the bidding had ended and Jonas strolled by her rather smugly to retrieve his item. Margaret’s inside boiled and yet there was little she could do about it. The auction would soon be over and everyone had played witness to his obvious win. She willed herself to accept the loss of her mother’s comb, convincing herself that it was the memories she held dear, not the object itself. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jonas slip the comb into his inside pocket before resuming his place along the wall.

  Vases and side tables, gloves and gowns, made their way to the dining hall, each fetching eager bids. Eventually, Ainsley announced the last item of the night, a large armoire which took four men to usher in but only so far as the door. With the final knock of the gavel, the auction was over.

  Guests began to say their good-byes, often bragging about their new treasures. Margaret felt little attachment to the items that had been auctioned off. There was no resentment toward anyone who had bid, or the prices they paid, except when it came to Jonas, who appeared to have only spent so much on the comb to prove that he could. Let the trollop have it, she told herself while trying to ignore his incessant stare. A comb could not give her any amount of class.

  “Oh, Margaret, this has been such a nail-biting evening,” Bethany squealed as she approached her. “Why, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” Bethany pulled Margaret in for a hug.

  “I’m so thankful for your help, Bethany,” Margaret said. “I couldn’t have contacted all these people on my own.”

  “Oh, it’s a little thing,” Bethany answered dismissively.

  Margaret noticed her looking expectantly over her shoulder. The room had thinned somewhat, with only a few people lingering to nibble on the remaining food. “Looking for Peter?” Margaret asked.

  Abashed, Bethany gave a half-smile. “He hasn’t said two words to me this entire evening,” she admitted, bringing her eyes back to Margaret. Her voice held a hint of shame mixed in with a generous helping of uncertainty. “We had a misunderstanding, you know.”

  Margaret nodded, remembering her brother’s anger toward the event.

  “I fear he has not forgiven my enthusiasm.”

  Suddenly feeling overwhelming pity for the girl, Margaret placed a gloved hand on Bethany’s arm. “I will speak to him,” she said reassuringly. “Most likely he has just been preoccupied. I sprung the role of auctioneer on him at the last minute.”

  Bethany nodded but did not smile. Margaret wondered if her brother had broken her heart. She bore the look of a jilted bride recently reminded of the life she had been promised.

  Margaret’s eye caught a glimpse of Jonas nearby. He was alone and it looked as if he was waiting for an opportunity to speak with her. In an effort to avoid him, Margaret took Bethany’s arm, in the same manner Lady Brant had often done with her, and began to lead Bethany from the room. “Come, let us find some interesting conversations.” She dared not look over her shoulder. She knew Jonas would be looking after them.

  In the foyer, Margaret and Bethany found some guests alongside the large items they had won. Julia was busy attaching tags to those items that would be collected later, most likely the next day during daylight hours. Cutter and Maxwell could be seen taking a large chest out the door while Ainsley stood alongside, shaking the hand of its new owner.

  “Oh, Joseph!” Bethany led Margaret toward a group of guests standing closer to the library door. “Margaret, you remember my brother Joseph and his wife, Annabelle, don’t you? And this is our dear friend Mr. Cyrus.”

  Margaret nodded and extended a hand in greeting. “I trust you enjoyed your evening.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Margaret,” Annabelle answered, looking to her husband as if nudging him to agree.

  “Your brother is quite the auctioneer,” Mr. Cyrus said with a laugh. “I can’t say I have enjoyed an auction so much.”

  “He has developed a soft spot for the orphanage,” Margaret explained. “For him, it’s personal.”

  The group nodded. “My heart breaks thinking of those children,” Bethany said. “Especially with what all the papers are saying...”

  Margaret was not listening. Her gaze found Jonas as he exited the dining hall, hands deep in his pockets as he strode over. Mesmerized by his movements, Margaret had forgotten she was supposed to be avoiding him and turned slightly toward him as he approached her.

  He pulled her mother’s comb from his pocket and slid it into her hand. Leaning into her ear his breath warmed her skin as he spoke. “I won this for you,” he said. He glanced to the gathering and then back to Margaret’s eyes. “I’m sorry.” For a moment, she thought she saw tears threatening his lower lids, but he turned, straightening his stance, and headed for the door.

  Shocked by the encounter, Margaret watched, the comb in her hands, as Jonas bid farewell to Ainsley and left. Margaret stroked the comb in her hands, relieved to have it back, while the realization dawned on her that had anyone else placed the winning bid it would have been gone forever.
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br />   Ainsley came over but Margaret hardly noticed. Her heart vacillated between anger at Jonas’s early behaviour and relief that he would bid so high for a treasured memory of her mother.

  “A gentleman is offering tours of the sites...” someone said, though Margaret was too busy fingering the precious keepsake in her hand.

  “Would you like to join us, Margaret?” Mr. Cyrus asked, tilting his stance to catch Margaret’s gaze.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” Margaret said, blinking back tears.

  “Would you like to join us tomorrow night? On the tour?” Bethany asked.

  Before Margaret realized what she was agreeing to, she nodded and offered a smile in apology. “Yes, that sounds lovely.” Her gaze lifted to Ainsley, who stood over her, but her smile faded when she saw the anger in his eyes.

  Chapter 24

  And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner,

  “How could you agree to go to such a thing?” Ainsley asked, his voice echoing in the dark, empty foyer. He had just closed the door to the last guest of the evening and was glad decorum no longer required his silence on the matter. “A murder tour? Margaret, of all the most ill-conceived ideas!” Ainsley marched past her heading for the library. His stride was so determined she could hardly keep up.

  “I did not realize what I was agreeing to,” Margaret pleaded as if searching for forgiveness.

  “These children are not sideshow freaks,” he growled over his shoulder.

  The library looked empty save for the few tables that had been displaying items and the odd crate that remained from the cache of goods. Julia stood from her seat behind a table when Ainsley and Margaret entered. She smiled at him but her smile quickly faded when her eyes found Margaret. Hiding their liaison was proving difficult.

  The maid held a large envelope and presented it to Margaret. “All the notes are here, Lady Margaret,” she said, giving a quick glance to Ainsley. “Would you like me to take it to Mrs. Holliwell in the morning? I’m sure Mr. Maxwell or Mr. Cutter could escort me.”