Chapter 2

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;

 

Ainsley stepped out into the street to see the last thread of the November sun disappearing from the night sky. It was the hazy dusk before twilight that set the city in an eerie, almost translucent glow. The atmosphere on the streets was nearly frantic as people hurried to make their way home before dark, as if some unseen creature awaited them in the darkness of night. By the time Ainsley would arrive home, there would be few people about and most, at least in his family's neighbourhood, preferred to travel by the relative safety of an unassuming carriage.

The young doctor, however, refused to take a carriage, despite his mother's insistence that she would send one to the hospital at the end of his shift. He enjoyed his evening strolls home. He reassured her that her unease was a woman's perspective on the city, a dark and dangerous place once the gas street lights were lit. As a man he saw the city with a much brighter view at night and relished those half hour jaunts home. In his mind the walk was not nearly long enough.

The gaslights gave poor illumination compared to that of daylight and only served to create pools of darkness that were only somewhat lighter than the shadows beyond. Despite early promises the new invention did little to cure the unease of London at night. Ainsley slipped on his gloves and pulled his coat in around his torso as he made the damp walk to Westminster Bridge. The bridge was swept with a harsh wind as he walked across. The damning cold only abated once he made it to the park grounds that surrounded Buckingham Palace. It was a lovely, near silent walk that allowed Ainsley the luxury of deep thought not permitted in the daytime bustle of city movements. His contemplation was only intermittently interrupted by single passing carriages with neither driver nor occupants paying him much heed. On foot he was just a man making his way home, and not the second son of one of the wealthiest men in the Empire.

Not many people knew this about him. To most he was just a bright young man who had been fortunate enough to have a benefactor paying for his schooling. But in truth, Ainsley wasn't his real name. He decided to use his mother's maiden name when applying to medical school and convinced his father he could be a surgeon and not have his profession affect the family negatively. In effect, he led a double life and only a few people knew he was Peter Marshall, second son and heir to Lord Abraham Marshall. It was better that way. Ainsley could pursue a career in medicine and no one in London society knew his daily tasks consisted of more than what was befitting an independently wealthy gentleman. Assuming his mother's name gave him a freedom he had never thought possible.

His family had owned a house in Belgravia for a few decades though he had spent most of his childhood at the country house with his mother and siblings. Their father preferred the city residence and they did not see him much. It was not an odd arrangement, certainly not to Daniel, himself and Margaret, who grew up with things being so; but now as they all stepped firmly into adulthood the strange marital partnership became hard to ignore. It set the tone for the family which was rife with division. Ainsley, who loathed any miniscule interaction with his overbearing father, preferred the company of their mother, while Daniel, the eldest, gravitated to the man who would pass him the family fortune. Margaret, bless her, remained in the middle not letting her preference known though Ainsley secretly believed she preferred their mother who had been kinder and gentler to them as children when they were not being attended to by their full time governesses.

It was when Ainsley accepted his post at St. Thomas Hospital that he knew he could not escape the city that winter as he had before, not as a professional man. He would be bound to his position and thus be forced to remain in his father's city house far longer than he desired. Luckily the old man remained disinterested and secluded in his study rather than interfere with the daily workings of the house. Ainsley would not have to see him much.

The house looked almost dark from the street, the few lights inside doing little to illuminate the rooms. Thick curtains were drawn over the windows giving Ainsley no indication of the mood of those inside.

The front door opened before he reached it, and the willing hand of the family butler, Billis, offered to take the young doctor's damp hat and coat.

“Good evening, Billis.” Ainsley smiled as he handed the servant his hat, and then began pulling at his gloves.

“How was your day, young Peter? I trust you have been keeping busy,” Billis asked, taking care to look Ainsley in the eyes.

“The hospital is a busy place, to be sure.”

“Hospital? Are you ill, young master?” The servant suppressed a knowing smile. Lord Marshall forbade Ainsley from telling anyone his true occupation. He felt his son's aspirations to become a surgeon were crude and not befitting of a gentleman's house. Afraid of idle gossip reaching hired help in other houses on the street, the servants were not to know what it was Peter did all day. Billis was the only one who knew, though he could never openly admit as much.

Ainsley smiled at Billis' remark and was happy to play along. “No, not ill. I am the picture of health.”

“Very good young sir.”

Billis accepted Ainsley's coat and bowed quickly before leaving the foyer.

Ainsley could hear chatter in the drawing room. Most likely, at that late hour, his family had finished eating and gathered there for further amusement. He could smell the pungent aroma of his brother's cigars and envisioned a brandy glass in his opposite hand. With an early morning ahead of him, Ainsley wanted to avoid the family if he could, namely his father, before making his journey to the train station. He had one foot on the staircase before Margaret came out from the drawing room.

“Peter!” She smiled at him openly. “I asked Cook to keep a plate warm for you.”

Ainsley looked to the top of the stairs, longing for dry clothes, a warm fire in his room and that bottle of gin he kept hidden in his chest of drawers. “You are trying to avoid Father,” she said. “You can't avoid him all winter.”

“I have to catch a train in the morning, that is all.”

“Train? Where are you going?”

“To Picklow, a small town in Norfolk.”

“What on Earth are you going there for? Are there not enough dead people here for you to study?” In recent months, Margaret had shown a keen interest in Ainsley's work. She once begged Ainsley for a chance to see a dead body and when given the opportunity she lingered to watch him conduct a post-mortem. She did not overt her eyes, or make a peep of protest. She watched with a curiosity that reminded him of his younger self. After that Ainsley decided to remain mum when anyone in his class remarked that women did not have the stomach for surgery. Margaret could out perform any of those butchers' sons.

“The local physician needs a little assistance. I am sure you will fare well enough without me.” He looked past her and strained to see who was in the withdrawing room before he heard hearty laughter of his self-assured older brother, already boisterous with drink.

“Won't you eat before you retire?” she asked hopefully.

“I am not hungry,” he said, making a motion to continue up the stairs.

“You sound just like mother,” Margaret said, remaining at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him.

After two steps Ainsley turned and listened. In the least, his mother deserved to know where he was going. “Is Mother in the parlour?”

“She left for Tunbridge Wells this morning,” Margaret answered with slightly down turned eyes.

“And you didn't go with her?” Ainsley asked. He had taken it for granted that Margaret would accompany their mother to the country estate; at least until she found a match, otherwise there would be no reason for her to remain in the dirty, polluted city throughout the winter.

Margaret hesitated and shook her head. “No,” was all she said, but Ainsley could tell there was more. He came back down the stairs and embraced Margaret with a tenderness no one else in the family received from him. “Did something happen while I was away?” he asked, his chin pressed into the top of her head as she clung to him.

“No,” she answered in an unconvincing tone.

Ainsley forced her to release him and looked down at her face. He lifted her chin forcing her to meet his gaze. “Margaret, you and I have been in this tumultuous family long enough to know that's not true. What is the matter? Did Father do something?”

Margaret remained silent for a moment, her eyes searching his face, as if he held the words she needed to say. “Nothing,” she answered softly, “Honest.”

Ainsley let out a breath and shrugged. He held no power with her and she could be just as stubborn as he. “All right then,” he said, turning back to the stairs. “I have an early morning.”