Chapter 13

We are call’d–we must go.

 

Margaret stood under the curved brick archway that framed Jonas' front door and released the iron knocker, satisfied with the deep base sound which signalled her arrival. She glanced back to Jacob, her family's carriage driver, who stood next to the duo of horses. He looked at her with concern, no doubt questioning why she would request to come to such a place. Bonnington Square was not the sort of neighbourhood the Marshall clan was accustomed to visiting. Though pleasant enough with its two storey row houses adorned with symmetrical arch windows and walled gardens, Margaret could have no doubt that her extravagant carriage had attracted a certain degree of attention from the middle class families who lived there.

Margaret tried to look determined, if only for Jacob's sake, though she began to wonder herself whether she had made the right choice.

“Perhaps we should come again in the morning?” Jacob offered. Margaret did not reply.

“No one is at home, my lady,” Jacob said, a trifle more panicked this time. He eyed the windows above them as if he were embarrassed to be seen in such a place. Most likely he was embarrassed for her, not realizing she had business with the occupant.

After another knock and a brief moment of waiting she almost resigned to leave, imagining Jonas back in his gambling den at the cards table. But then the door opened swiftly, catching her off guard. Startled she raised her gloved hand to her chest and inhaled.

“Jonas!”

Her surprise made her sound breathless, providing a cover for the real shock of seeing him with his shirt unbuttoned. He was hastily buttoning up as he stood before her. “My apologies,” he said out of breath. Leaving the last two buttons undone, he raked his hands through his hair and smiled.

“I did not mean to interrupt,” Margaret said, feeling heat rise into her face. It was anger more than embarrassment and it took all of her composure not to completely berate him. She wondered what he could have possibly been doing without his shirt on at such an early hour of the evening. Despite the fact that a winter night had settled, she had been careful not to call too early. She knew he was with a girl, a tart of some sort, the type of conquest that he and Peter always seemed jocular about whenever they were in each other’s company.

“No interruption,” Jonas answered, his breathing more controlled though still uneven. “Would you like to come—” he stepped aside but stopped himself. “Perhaps that is not gentlemanly.” He bore a look of worry, afraid he had committed a deep faux pas and looked to Jacob as if to apologize.

Margaret hesitated to enter. She did not want to see the girl, whomever she might be, even if the trollop had miraculously dressed while they stood on Jonas' doorstep. After a moment's pause she dared to ask what was nagging at her.

“Who is she?” Her voice was cold and distant.

Bewildered, Jonas looked at her, as if questioning the origin of her enquiry. “Pardon?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I'm not stupid,” she said, momentarily forgetting the true purpose of her visit. “Whoever she is I hope you have enough respect to make her breakfast in the morning.”

Propelled by anger, she turned, much to the relief of Jacob who seemed all too ready to help her into the carriage and leave.

“Margaret!” Jonas stepped out into the pavement, grabbing her arm to turn her around. “There's no girl, if that's what you’re thinking.”

Margaret swallowed, suddenly finding it hard to look at him, purposely avoiding the patch of bare chest she could see beyond the undone top buttons of his shirt.

“You can not blame me for making that assumption.”

For a brief moment Jonas looked lost until Margaret's eyes flickered to his chest and quickly moved away, staring over his shoulder. Doing up the last three buttons he groaned, suddenly aware of his misstep. “If you must know I performed a surgery today, a rather...” he searched for the proper word, “messy one that didn't come to a happy end.”

Margaret's face fell at the thought of it.

“I was changing my shirt because parts of the young man followed me home,” he continued indignantly.

“I am sorry to hear that,” she said, “It must be a hard time for you.”

“It is.”

He wasn't angry with her, Margaret knew as much but she felt completely helpless to comfort him, and even more silly for coming to bother him in the first place. The identity of her mother's lover seemed inconsequential now that she was home safe and sound, more or less while Jonas treated dying men and women all day. A moment of quiet contemplation passed between them before Jonas' face softened.

“Why did you come, Margaret?” he asked.

She swallowed hard and looked back to Jacob who waited expectantly. “Take a carriage ride with me?”

 

A carriage ride with a bachelor, even with open curtains, was only slightly less unseemly than disappearing into his parlour without a chaperone. Jacob seemed determined to stay on the main, well lit roads though Margaret quickly drew the curtains to shield them and their conversation from inquisitive pedestrians.

Before they left Jonas had grabbed his jacket and a tie and within a few moments he was seated across from her, his one leg bent and propped up on his knee, a hand purposely clasped on his ankle, while his free arm was stretched out across the back of the bench beside him. He looked so relaxed Margaret thought he would light up a cigarette at any moment. His nonchalance annoyed her greatly, especially since she felt like a tightly wound ball of wool.

Their relationship had been easy once, friends because Peter wished them to be, but since that kiss and his subsequent desertion of her and Peter, Margaret could feel the strain. She had thought she loved him once but finding him at home in such a state of undress reminded her that he was a ladies' man, a gambler and a doctor. He could never be tamed. Even if they could be together she would always wonder, never fully trusting him because of his past.

“Did you really think I was entertaining a woman?” he asked.

Margaret licked her lips, biting into the top lip slightly. “You have to agree it is not out of the realm of possibility.”

Even though they sat with their knees practically touching, the distance between them was expansive. In the failing light she saw him shake his head in disbelief, glancing out the window momentarily before returning a hardened gaze toward her.

“It was all I could do to get out of the house without Julia knowing where I went.” Margaret grew tense, remembering the afternoon she had had with Julia following her from room to room. Margaret had uttered less than four words to the maid and hoped the lady’s maid would soon give notice so Margaret would no longer have such a shadow about her.

“Julia?”

“My new lady's maid. Father hired her. It's dreadful. She's quiet, reserved and so very helpful. She does so much for me I think I will scream.”

Jonas' lips curled slightly. “Dreadful.”

“You misunderstand. She's my father's spy. She has access to my clothes, my trinkets, my entire life. I have to tell her where I am going so she can help me dress appropriately and all I can think is how unfair it is that my brothers can come and go as they please while I must be tethered to the house in some way. And she has such a nice demeanor it is hard to dislike her.”

Jonas' laugh was one of amusement and arrogance. “Do not dislike her,” he said with a slight shrug.

Margaret wished very much that she had not brought it up. She had not expected him to make fun of her.

“Become friends with her,” he explained after some more laughter. “Switch her loyalty from your father to you.”

“Could it be so easy?” she asked, already growing weary of his arrogance.

Jonas shrugged and the tension grew exponentially. Margaret thought it may have been a mistake to come see him. Their exchange was formal and controlled, and as much as she wanted to confess how much his kiss meant to her she held back. Seeing the way he was now and the manner in which he held her at a distance made her think that perhaps it was just a dream.

“Mother is home,” she blurted out, deciding to get straight to the matter at hand.

Jonas smiled slightly. “I am glad to hear it.”

“I should feel relieved but I don't,” she explained.

“She is home, that is all that matters,” Jonas said. “I had heard a rumour that Scotland Yard had brought in the body of Lady Marshall.”

Margaret's face fell at the memory of Peter telling her just that at the hospital that afternoon. She nodded. “Peter told me about their mistake. Must have been dreadful for him.”

“Be grateful it was an error and not your reality.”

Margaret saw something in Jonas' eyes, though he tried hard enough to prevent her from seeing. There were tears, she thought but when he looked back to her they were gone. What was it, she wondered, that struck him so harshly? He was angry with her for assuming he was entertaining a woman and now it seemed he was hurt by her inability to be appreciative.

“I am grateful,” she retorted, perhaps a little too forcefully. “I am just not sure the worst is over.” She expected him to have a quick retort, to offer some basic advice or easy solution but he remained silent, perhaps unable or unwilling to allay her fears. “Jonas, I need to know who he is,” she said at last. “Did you see his face? Did you recognize him?”

It took him a moment to answer. He shifted slightly in his seat which Margaret could not be sure was due to the movement of the carriage. “I don't think—”

“Jonas, please! I have to know.”

“What will you do, chase him down and demand answers?” Jonas asked.

Margaret looked to her hands, twisted together slightly on the folds of her dress. “No,” she answered meekly. “I just need to know what kind of person he is. Is he the type to want to support her, to marry her? You can tell a lot by a person without even speaking to them.”

“You mean judge them,” Jonas said. He did not wait for Margaret to answer but she was so dumbfounded by his words she wouldn't have said much anyway. “I saw all I needed to,” he said with a deep exhale of breath, “and then all I saw was the hurt on your face, that was all I could think about.”

Margaret closed her eyes in disbelief. “I try to remember but it's all a fog. I can remember her,” Margaret looked up pleadingly, “and you.”

She did not know what she expected; perhaps she thought he would remember their kiss or take pity on her and soften his demeanor. Maybe she felt he would see how much she cared about him. Whatever she expected she was sorely disappointed.

He exhaled loudly and adjusted himself in his seat pulling his coat in tighter around his body. It was as if he looked at her but could not see her. She knew then that he was truly lost to her.

“I don't remember,” he said with a slight shake of his head. His tone was so definitive that Margaret did not press. “What does it matter, Margaret?” he asked. “She came home.”

She found herself feeling angry, the red heat of frustration radiating from her core. Because it matters, she thought. It matters that she disappeared for days without anyone knowing where she went or how she fared, leaving their imaginations to assume the worst. It matters because the woman who returned does not resemble her mother in any way. It matters because something simply does not feel right. As much as Margaret wanted to feel the affair was over, in her heart she felt it was only the beginning of something much worse.