Chapter 21

Ice with the warm blood mixing;

 

Ainsley lingered at the threshold to his mother's room which had already been altered from its disheveled state. Everything was back in place and cleaned. The bath had been removed but the splashing water had left a waterlogged look to the grains in the wood. Ainsley approached, his hands in his pockets, and surveyed the site in front of the hearth where the tub had been. A flash of the morning before assaulted him.

Screaming from Margaret.

His own desperate attempts to revive his mother.

He gave a quick shake of his head to banish the memory.

The one thing he wanted to remember was the one that eluded him. When he first came to his mother's side had there been water on the ground? Those minor details, the ones which he would have remembered on any other occasion were lost in the panic. He had never been witness to such a scene concerning his family and he found his normal propensity to remember minute details completely blank. He had been wet to the skin by the time he had finished, that much he remembered, but had he stepped into a pool of water already present?

Ainsley growled at himself and ran his fingers through his hair.

“You did everything you could,” Margaret said from the door.

Ainsley started and turned, unaware that he was being watched.

“Was the floor wet?” he blurted at the sight of her.

Margaret's eyes went wide with panic and she shook her head but it appeared less than a committed response. “I don't know,” she said quietly.

Ainsley let out another deep throaty growl.

“My apologies Peter!” she yelled. “I am not used to such scenes as you are.” He heard the panic rising in her voice and she began to back away as if disgusted at his anger toward her.

“Margaret, no,” he said quickly, putting out a hand. “I am not angry. Not with you. With myself for not remembering.”

She lingered, but her expression was leery. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft and less sure. “I have been thinking of what you told me,” she stopped suddenly, swallowing hard and licking her lips. “I saw someone leave her room that night.”

“What? Who?” Ainlsye stepped closer, unable to hide his desperation.

“I don’t know. It was dark. I was too tired to think much of it.” A tear slipped from her eye and cascaded down her cheek. “I fell asleep in the library and…” She began to sob more openly, “if only I had woken up a few moments earlier.”

“You must remember who it was,” Ainsley pressed.

Surprised, Margaret’s eye grew wide. “I don’t know! Goodness Peter,” She raised her hand to her face, pushing tears from her red rimmed eyes. “I am frightened, Peter.” She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and backed away when he approached. He wanted to hug her, hold her and reassure her, but she wouldn't let him.

Her eyes lifted then, as if catching a glimpse of something she had not seen before. “What happened to your face?” she asked.

Instantly he raised his fingers to his stitches and regretted it once they touched his wound. Wincing slightly, he shrugged it off.

“Were you drunk again this time?” she asked disapprovingly.

“How else could I knowingly stand in front of a man who is vying to hit me as many times as he can?” his soft tone gave way to his annoyance at her meddling but Margaret seemed to be in no mood for their standard teasing. “Margaret, please.”

She turned from him and retreated to her room, slamming the door as Ainsley tried to follow her.

For a moment, he hesitated in the hallway wondering if he should step forth and barge in, like he would have done under normal circumstances. Things were different but not so entirely different that Margaret would not indulge him.

When he did open the door he found Margaret seated on the edge of her bed, one arm wrapped around the wood post that held her bed curtains in place. A dress form was set up at the far end of the room, near the window with one of Margaret's mourning dresses set upon it.

Margaret looked as if she was talking to someone and when Ainsley looked back at the dress form he saw Julia crouched down and concentrating on the hem of the skirt. As if caught trespassing Ainsley stopped and set his shoulders straighter.

“Peter, I am in no mood to argue,” he heard Margaret say from the bed, though his attention was placed elsewhere.

“I have not come to argue,” Ainsley answered turning his gaze to his sister. “I only thought you had been vexed with me.”

“Why shouldn't I be? That which you men call sport is barbaric and reprehensible.”

Ainsley could see her knuckles turn white as she gripped the post. He knew she did not agree with his liking for boxing but her protests had never been so forceful.

“You would not want to hear what I think of your drinking,” Margaret nearly hissed.

Julia stood slowly, a needle carefully held in her slender fingers. “Perhaps Miss Margaret wishes to speak in private,” she said demurely, her eyes to the floor.

Margaret let out a sigh and waved a dismissive hand at her lady's maid. “No, please stay. Forgive me.” Margaret gave a forced smile. “I am overwrought.”

Ainsley watched as his sister raised a hand to her face, rubbing her cheek with an open palm before resting her chin on it. Her hand lingered there, her eyes fixated on something in front of her and then he saw a tear slip from her eye and spill onto the fabric of her dress.

“Margaret,” Ainsley breathed as he stepped forward taking a seat beside her on the bed. By the time he placed a consoling arm around her, she was openly weeping, her body trembling with her sobs. She did not push him away but rather melted into him like she often did when they were small. It was then that Ainsley realized their once strong bond had fallen to the wayside under the expectations of adulthood. He had been neglectful of her in his quest for scientific excellence. It was a situation he remembered once reassuring her would never happen. With Ainsley's arms wrapped around her, she buried her face in his chest and gripped his lapel, using it to muffle her sorrowful cries.

Over the top of Margaret's weeping form, Ainsley saw Julia watching them, her task paused and her eyes glistening with sympathy. Their gazes locked for the briefest of seconds but it was when Julia turned away, using her sleeve to dry her eyes, that Ainsley felt his heart nearly stop and he was remorseful for allowing the moment to pass.

“What are we to do?” he heard his sister say from the folds of his jacket. She sniffled and Ainsley pulled out his handkerchief and held it out for her.

He wanted to reassure her, tell her everything was going to be all right but words failed him. If the Weatherall's decided to call off the wedding or society shunned the Marshall name completely, he cared little. He had his sights set on one thing, and one thing only, finding out who killed their mother.

Margaret's sobs grew stronger when he gave no immediate answer.

“Hush now,” he found himself saying, though he could not say why it mattered.

“If what you say is true,” she said, pulling her face from his shoulder to look at him, “and someone killed her—” He words broke off as she cried forcibly.

Ainsley's eyes darted to the other side of the room where Julia was dutifully pretending not to hear.

“I will find out,” he answered softly.

He saw Julia swallow hard at his words and she looked up to him nervously. Suddenly she stood and made for the door. Ainsley was quick to step up, grabbing her arm before she made it to the door.

“Wait a minute!” he yelled, pulling her back with a forceful grip.

“You are hurting me,” she cried, trying to gingerly pull his hand from her arm. She wriggled under his strength but he only pulled her closer.

“Peter, stop!”

Ainsley felt his sister at his side, pulling him back but he could not relent. “You know something,” he growled, caring not how she cried.

“No,” she answered, shaking her head furiously. “I was the one to draw her bath but I swear I don't know anything more.”

Ainsley's grip loosened and Margaret, as well, appeared shocked at her maid’s words.

“Where was Violetta?” Margaret asked, stepping between Ainsley and Julia.

“She had collapsed, my lady.” Again Julia tried to twist her arm free. “Please, you are hurting me.”

“Peter, let her go!” Margaret demanded.

“What do you mean she collapsed?” Ainsley pressed, pulling Julia even closer.

The maid appeared panic stricken. Her eyes grew wide and she looked as if she would weep under the scrutiny. “She was overtired, I suspect. I saw to her ladyship's bath. She was fine when I left her. I was in the kitchen but a minute when I heard Miss Margaret's screams.”

A flash of the night before came to his mind and he remembered Julia and Billis standing at the door looking in over the scene while Ainsley and Daniel tried to revive their mother.

Suddenly feeling ashamed of his treatment of her Ainsley quickly let go. His anger had given way to remorse and then shame.

Julia turned to Margaret, openly crying. “I'm sorry, Lady Margaret,” she said between sobs. “I should have told you. It was my fault. I should have been watching her. I knew she was not herself that night. I should have kept a closer eye. Forgive me.”

Margaret shook her head. “There is nothing to forgive, Julia,” she said, pulling the maid close.

Ainsley raised a hand to his mouth and then traced his jaw bone to his chin. “Forgive me,” he said, unconvincingly.

Julia swallowed nervously when she looked to him. Though she nodded, Ainsley doubted whether she truly did forgive him.

“Is Violetta recovered?” Margaret asked.

“Yes, my lady, though like all of us she is handling her ladyship's passing quite hard,” Julia explained.

“Nay, I'd say worse,” Ainsley offered, knowing how close she and his mother had been.

Julia nodded in agreement. “May I return later to finish your dress, my lady?” she asked between sniffles.

No sooner had Margaret nodded than Julia dropped a quick curtsey and left the room.

“Peter Benjamin Marshall!” Margaret snarled, using his name as if it were laden with curse words. “How could you do such a thing? Imagine the week that poor woman has had.”

Ainsley was forced to admit her first week of employment with the Marshall's must have been hellish. It was a miracle she had not given notice and run for Canada.

“You have taken a liking to her then?” Ainsley said, admittedly changing the subject from his own misdeeds.

“Yes,” Margaret answered without a thought, “She's been listening to me ramble for hours about Mother, and hasn't said a peep in return that wasn't amiable and uplifting. You are becoming a brute.”

His sister's words stung though he knew emotions were running high in the household. “Are you not suspicious? She starts working for us and then Mother is murdered?”

“Peter!”

“Do I not have a right to question?”

“Yes, but Julia?”

“I mean Father.” Ainsley paced the room, hands on hips and looking to the window.

Margaret was quiet for some time either stunned or pondering her brother's words. “Father?”

Without trying to hide his disgust, Ainsley nodded.

“But Julia couldn't do such a thing,” Margaret continued incredulously. “I doubt she'd have the strength.”

Thinking of the sting on his cheek Julia dealt him a few days ago, Ainsley had no doubt regarding her strength. “We do not know this woman from Eve,” Ainsley said, “and remember Mother, remember how uncoordinated she was that night? I doubt it would take much strength if she was inebriated.”

Margaret swallowed, her eyes scanning room. “You believe Father hired Julia to kill Mother?”

Ainsley nodded.

She closed her eyes. “What evidence do you have, besides circumstance?”

“Give it time, Margaret. All I need is time.”