Chapter 5

Yet all things must die.

 

Margaret began to fidget, her needlepoint lay on her lap neglected, and soon the grandfather clock grew to annoy her immensely. She had changed her seat innumerable times that morning, and found no break from her anxiety. She desperately wanted to leave the house and search for her mother. She would have liked to knock on every door in the city, and would be doing so had her father not forbade her. She had thought to visit close friends and family but when she suggested it he scowled and grew angry.

“Would you like to take out an advertisement as well?” he yelled, “Tell everyone I cannot suppress my own wife?” He was right in his own way, though Margaret hated to admit it.

It simply was not fair that Peter had a vocation with which to occupy himself whilst she sat in wait with her nails bitten to the quick and loose strands of thread picked from her clothing.

Her last change of seat brought her next to the window in the drawing room which overlooked the back garden. In her quest to forget that her mother was gone and she was helpless to find her, Margaret had already traced the perimeter of every stone in the walkway and counted each plank of wood that made up the stout fence. There were no flowers or foliage to see, though the holly bush stood out crisply against its grey surroundings. Christmas was in a few weeks’ time and she would have to gather some sprigs soon from that bush, though it pained her every time she did it. She'd make a wreath for the front door and perhaps use some laurel and other greenery to make a centerpiece for the holidays.

Oh please Margaret, she chided herself, as if your projects matter in comparison! She knew it to be true. If her mother turned up dead she'd be even more angered with herself. But then again what else was there for her to do?

Perhaps her mother was at a friend's house, stopped there to break her journey or for company. The country house could be rather lonely, especially at that time of year. But which friends remained, she wondered, when the parties and gatherings ended months ago? Who would stay in the city?

Margaret stood suddenly remembering her mother's dearest friend, Lady Gemma Brant, who made her home in Chelsea. Margaret was at the door and nearly through when her father walked in from the other side of the room.

“Where can you be off too?” he asked.

Margaret turned, twisting her hands in front of her. His voice was brash, and it reminded Margaret of when her father had been drinking. She glanced to the clock and saw that it was barely dinner-time.

“Come sit a while with your Papa.”

“I was otherwise engaged in a task,” she said, hoping he would not press further.

“I imagine it can wait.” He patted the back cushion of a chair while he stood behind it.

Margaret hesitated for a moment, pondering an argument they would have if she disobeyed him. She would need to leave the house at some point and angering him would not serve her well then. She relented, crossed back toward him and took a seat in the chair that he indicated. He sat opposite her.

She could smell his whisky tainted breath from a few feet away and saw how his mood had changed since she had last seen him at breakfast. He had been tucked away in his study all morning, not seeing to business as she had supposed, but drinking.

“What is it Father?” she asked lightly.

He raised an eyebrow in her direction and she knew he meant it as a warning. “What did you tell the Inspector?” he asked in a monotone.

His question surprised her as he had been the one to encourage her to speak with him in the first place, and had allowed her to do so alone.

“I don't know what you mean,” she answered, unsure whether it would anger him or not.

“You should take care, daughter, for your reputation,” he said. “It will do no one any good to have your honour tarnished publicly.”

“My honour?”

“Yes Margaret, I have not forgotten that you left without my blessing, with the last man whom I'd approve as your escort.”

Margaret bowed her head, accepting her part in the misadventure. “Jonas is a good man.” Her voice was quiet and queer, lacking the conviction she displayed when speaking with her brother about Jonas. She heard her father laugh slightly but chose to ignore it. It would do no good to anger him further, not when she could smell the whiskey as if he had bathed in it.

They sat in silence for a long while, Margaret letting her eyes move over the room and Lord Marshall trailing his fingers along the fabric of the arm of the chair. When Margaret finally looked at him she saw his jaw clenched.

“You find yourself attached to him to spite me?” he asked.

Margaret shook her head. “Of course not. I was thinking rashly. I knew you would not allow me to leave.”

“What kind of father do you believe I am?” he hollered.

Margaret swallowed, her heart rate quickening. “Father, you have been drinking,” she dared to say. “Perhaps we should have this conversation another time?” She winced slightly against a forthcoming rebuke.

Instead her father let out a long breath, suddenly relaxing his shoulders, and then nodded. “Tell Billis I am in my rooms.” He left with a defeated air, taking slow steps across the room and into the hall.

With him gone, Margaret allowed herself a full breath and closed her eyes. It was a long while before her heart rate returned to normal.

 

Margaret was shown to a room that would have been the parlour in any ordinary house but she was quickly reminded that she was not in an ordinary house. The parlour of Lady Gemma Brant's house was more of a museum of sorts, a laboratory of human remains and embalmed body parts on display. As Margaret walked in she was struck by the collection of various sized jars, each holding preserved items in cloudy green liquid. There were foetuses and severed hands, a dissected ear canal and a cross-sectioned skull with brain perfectly intact.

Margaret saw how quickly the housekeeper, who had led her in, retreated to the foyer saying her mistress would meet her shortly. The tall slender door was closed, confining Margaret to the room of medical horrors, marvels to her brother who had visited there often during their formative years. Lady Gemma Brant was a friend of their mother's and she had brought her children there for tea many times. Peter often credited his interest in science to all he learned and observed while eating jam on crumpets and lacing his earl grey with gobs of sugar at Lady Brant’s house. He relished the display cases, the jars and the artwork.

Margaret found an interest in them as well, though she was never quite as comfortable around the specimens as he was. It did not help that the collection always seemed to change between visits. Lady Brant would add new pieces as she discovered and perfected her technique, or rearrange the specimens like a shopkeeper would rearrange their window display. Her laboratory was in another room, hidden from view, but her specimens, her gems of science, were put on display for everyone who dared to visit.

Margaret could hardly look away. Her eyes were drawn to the plumpness of the arteries and the clean white of exposed bone. Lady Brant was meticulous in her work which blurred the lines between works of science and works of art.

“I've had offers from the Czar of Russia, you know?” Lady Brant said from behind Margaret as she bent over for a closer look.

“For this piece?” Margaret asked. She was looking at a hand, severed at the mid forearm. It was not in water or formaldehyde but it was dry in a rectangular display case. The skin, hardened to dark leather, had been slit and pulled back to reveal the pink muscles and lily white bones beneath. The skin curled and the veins looked plump despite a complete absence of blood or fluid.

“For the whole collection,” Lady Brant explained.

Margaret could hear the anxiety in her voice and turned.

“How will I ever part with it?” Lady Brant asked, without expecting a reply.

“Has he offered a large sum?” Margaret asked.

“Oh yes,” Lady Brant chuckled, “not that I have much use for it. But, I fear I am running out of room, even after a quarter of it was sent to Denmark last summer. It will be hard to see them go.” She laughed as she glanced around the room, her hands folded demurely in front of her. “Listen to me, cooing as if they were my children.” She motioned to a settee near the window. “Please sit. I have not seen you in ages, my dear.”

Margaret went to where her host indicated and they both sat simultaneously.

“How is your mother?” Lady Brant asked, “I fear it has been too long since we last corresponded. Does she still spend most of her time in the country?”

Margaret saw her smile and winced. She hadn't the fortitude to tell her.

“Margaret dear, what is it? Nothing terrible I hope?”

“No one knows where she is,” Margaret confessed.

“What can you mean, no one know where she is?” Lady Brant leaned forward in her chair and furrowed her brow deeply.

“She and Father quarreled, or at least I think they did, and she left for the country house but never arrived. No one has seen her in three days.”

Lady Brant put a hand to her chest. “Oh Margaret my dear.” And then the look on her face changed from shock to acceptance, a reaction Margaret had not expected.

“What? What is it? Tell me Lady Brant, for I am dying inside. I had hoped she was here with you, knowing how close the two of you are but I see you had not heard from her in some time. If you know anything, you must tell me.”

Lady Brant swallowed and avoided Margaret's gaze.

“I fear she may be dead,” Margaret said, unable to control her anxiety.

Lady Brant shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Oh I highly doubt that, my dear. A woman like your mother is not one to fall prey so easily. Most likely she is hidden somewhere.”

“But why?” Margaret asked.

“I'm sure your mother has good reason, even if we cannot fathom what it is.” Their eyes finally met and Lady Brant's face was as solemn as Margaret’s was tense.

“I cannot accept that,” Margaret said, leaning forward in her seat slightly.

Lady Brant shook her head and shrugged. “I confess I have no more information than you. It is as much a mystery to me.”

“Had I not seen your shock with my own eyes I would believe you were assisting her in some way. You would tell me if you had spoken with her, wouldn't you?”

Lady Brant gave a slight smile, as if she were laughing at Margaret in her distraught state. “Of course,” she answered softly. The look on Margaret's face must have been doubtful for Lady Brant spoke again, attempting a more convincing tone. “I may agree with her right to freedom but I do not condone the manner in which she seeks it. Look at how it affects you, my dear.” She clicked her tongue in the pitying sort of way one does with a child. “Why any mother should be ashamed to cause her children such upheaval.”

“And my father, does he deserve such treatment?” Margaret asked knowing already what Lady Brant's answer would be. It was no secret Lord Marshall and Lady Brant had been at odds for as long as Margaret could recall. As a child their quips and jabs at special dinners and parties had seemed playful and familiar but as she grew Margaret noticed a deep seeded strain in their relationship that tainted the air of any room they were in together and forced everyone to tread lightly.

“Your father does not need sympathy from me. He's such a proud man—”

“But do you think he deserves to be abandoned by his wife?” Margaret pressed.

Lady Brant sat silent for a moment, her eyes still and her shoulders straight. “I can not tell what I believe he deserves. It would not be charitable.” She shifted in her seat, tucking some folds of her dress beneath her thigh before making eye contact with Margaret again. “Your father is more than capable of feeling sorry for himself.”

Margaret wondered what her mother's friend meant but said nothing. The room had grown uncomfortable and it was not something Margaret dared to pursue. In many ways, Margaret was still the child, expected to be seen and not heard though it vexed her greatly that she did not feel comfortable saying how she truly felt.

“You think I am unfair,” Lady Brant said after a long pause.

Margaret shook her head slightly and forced a cordial smile. “No, Lady Brant,” Margaret answered quickly. “I think you are a woman who speaks her mind.”

Lady Brant smiled and leaned forward to take Margaret's hand. “It was very brave of you to come. Have you visited any others?” Lady Brant patted Margaret's hand soothingly.

Margaret shook her head. “No. I spoke with an Inspector from Scotland Yard just last night.”

“Scotland Yard!” Lady Brant dropped Margaret's hand. “Oh dear, why did he go and summon them? They are thieves—”

“Reformed thieves,” Margaret corrected. She had wanted to say they were not all criminals but stopped short, not seeing the point in the debate it would bring.

Lady Brant shook her finger in disapproval. “No such creature exists. Oh, count on your father to be so selfish. I can just imagine the social pages.”

“Father said he would keep it confidential. He has no desire for a scandal any more than you or I.”

“So he says.”

Margaret watched as Lady Brant rose, clutching her stomach as she paced the room, pushing her hair from her face with her free hand.

“I will pay a visit to my friend at the paper and tell them Charlotte has decided to take a holiday, near the coast—”

“In December?” Margaret looked doubtful. She bit her lower lip.

“Quite right. I shall say her cousin, who lives in Edinburgh, has fallen ill and she has gone to nurse her.” Lady Brant smiled, pleased with her creative explanation. “That ought to hold the vultures at bay. And in the meantime, I will hire a private enquiry agent, which is what your father should have done, and go to her to verify she is in good health.” Lady Brant gave a short but loud inhale and smiled. “I will not force her to come home, mind you, but I will enquire about her whereabouts, if only to set your minds at ease.”

“Do you think it best to concoct such stories?” Margaret asked, trying to resist the knot that grew in the pit of her stomach.

Lady Brant shrugged. “I do not see the harm. They will print what we say or they will create their own version. Besides it's a more favourable version than running off with her lover.”

Margaret started, sitting up straighter and throwing her hands to the cushions beside her. “What did you just say?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Lady Brant paused momentarily before speaking, “That is what they are going to say. Well-to-do women who leave their husbands do so often. If we give them our version they won't dare make up such lies.”

“That is not how you said it,” Margaret pressed. “You spoke as if you knew she had a lover.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” Margaret suddenly grew impatient. “You do not have to hide the fact from me. I saw them, Mother and her lover, in Tunbridge Wells. Nothing you tell me will come as a shock.”

Lady Brant smiled and turned away. “I doubt that very much, my dear.”

Margaret watched as Lady Brant walked to the farthest end of the room. She held her hand to her stomach again as she fingered a brass balance set up on a desk. Books sat next to it, and an array of weights was nearby.

“How long?” Margaret asked, her voice commanding and defiant.

“What dear?” Lady Brant feigned ignorance.

Margaret left the sofa and marched the length of the room. Child or not, she was not leaving without satisfactory answers. “How long has she had a lover?”

Lady Brant unfolded a pair of round spectacles and positioned them on her nose. She reached for a book, avoiding Margaret's intense scrutiny. “I apologize my dear, I am very busy. I have said too much.”

“I'm not leaving,” Margaret answered. “Not until you tell me who he is and where I may find him.”

Book in hand Lady Brant began to walk away but stopped two paces from Margaret. She turned “I do not know his name,” she answered quietly. “I have never met him. All I know is that he has made your mother happy like no other.” Margaret’s gaze met hers and she saw the sincerity in Lady Brant's eyes.

“Unlike my father.”

Lady Brant did not need to answer.

“How long have you known?” Margaret asked.

“Two years,” Lady Brant answered. “Had I known how truly unhappy she was before, I would have encouraged her to do it sooner.”

Margaret felt her throat grow dry and she found herself wincing from the pain of it all. Unable to forget the words that Lady Brant had spoken Margaret suddenly made for the door. “Thank you, Lady Brant,” she said quickly, “for your hospitality.”

“Margaret!” Lady Brant called after her but Margaret was struggling for air and needed to be outside. The room, nay, the entire house was suffocatingly warm all of a sudden. Lady Brant's housemaid appeared at the door, Margaret's cloak in her hands.

Lady Brant met them in the foyer. “There is an exhibition at the hospital, a public dissection, in a week. I thought perhaps you would like to go since you have shown interest in my work.”

Margaret nodded absentmindedly as she turned to allow the maid to place the cloak over her shoulders.

“You will come?” Lady Brant implored.

Swallowing hard Margaret looked up, hoping her tears were not so noticeable. “I will come,” she choked.