Chapter 20

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly

 

His walk to the tavern would be a long one but he welcomed the silence and darkness as he made his way to the centre of town. The moon was shrouded in a mist that diffused its soft light and illuminated the trees to his left and right. There was a warm spray of fog all around him that clung onto his exposed face and hands as he walked.

He thought of Lillian as he walked. He hoped she slept soundly, allowing her body to fight off whatever demons threatened to steal her life. She had felt so helpless in his arms, so dependent upon the help he gave her. No one had ever needed him for something so basic and yet she clung to him in the hopes that he would save her. His entire career was built on the assistance he could give after death. Lillian needed him in life, and despite Ainsley's attempts to remain professional he started to feel attached in a way he thought he never could with his patients.

He held his flask in his hands, noticing it was nearly empty of its contents. He'd need a lot more than a few mouthfuls to get him to forget her arms around him and the feeling of her breath on his face. He smiled at the thought. Yes, he was going to need a whole lot more.

A snapped twig to his right jarred him from his daydream and he halted his step. He had been walking along the fence of the cemetery, where the lighted street lamps did not permeate.

“Hello?” he called out into the darkness. He squinted. “Is someone following me?” he asked in what even he knew was a feeble effort. It was only a twig, he told himself, resuming his walk, only now at a slightly quicker pace.

He emptied his flask, hoping the drink would dampen his heightened awareness, and slipped it back into his inner pocket. He was not afraid. He had boxed with the boys in school, far away from his father's critical eye, where he could indulge himself and his male whims. It was the not knowing, the creeping darkness that unnerved him. The fact that he could not see his opponent unsettled him.

The cloud above moved on and suddenly he could see that he truly was alone in the darkness. He tried to laugh at his folly, but his amusement was short lived. He had the distinct impression that he was being watched while in Picklow, though he knew not from where, by whom or by what.

The tavern appeared like a beacon, a lighthouse in the misty night. The fog gave way to rain by the time Ainsley reach the main road and the pellets of searing cold pricked his face and neck. He flipped up his collar and hunched over to brace himself but the rain was unrelenting. When he reached the tavern doors he was soaked to the skin. He struggled hard to peel the outer layers of clothing from his person and found comfort in the throng of people in the pub and the blazing fire in the hearth.

The tavern was the Inn, the dining hall converted after dinner into a place filled with music, merriment and drinks. The room was alive with labourers, just come from work. Mill workers, Ainsley noticed, most likely the very workers who were employed under the late Walter Lloyd and now his son. The gathering was boisterous, the music loud.

Ainsley slipped into one of the empty chairs at a round table next to a window and glanced around the room. There was a giant stone fireplace, the focal point of the room, with a roaring fire radiating heat. There were a few other round tables like the one where he sat positioned around the outside of the room. In the centre of the room two long pine tables ran parallel to each other, each flanked with benches, three to each side of the table. This is where the majority of revelers sat, mugs of ale in their fists, their cheeks already red with drink.

“Ain't seen ye before,” a voice called to him. He pulled his attention away from the others in the room and focused on a middle-aged woman in front of him. She stood over him with her arm bent and a round tray perched between her shoulder and hand, her free hand placed squarely on her hip. She looked like a woman no one would want to mess with, not in her husband's inn. “What'll ya 'ave?”

Ainsley pulled out his flask. “Can you fill this up with some whiskey and bring me some gin?”

She smiled out of one side of her mouth and gave him a wink. “Comin' up.”

She returned shortly and soon one drink became another, and then another. Ainsley drank with little care to his health or reputation. With each gulp and slap of an empty mug on the wooden table, his concerns for the boy and Lillian grew dull and muted until finally his recollection of the day's events slipped from his consciousness. His face grew warm and his thoughts vanished as the music played on and the gathered people grew more boisterous. The dancing commenced not long into the night and Ainsley found himself drawn to nearly every girl willing to hike up her skirts and slip her arm into his.

The evening became a haze of drink and dancing without the slightest concern for the world beyond. Ainsley was far more interested in continuing this euphoria than he was in facing the injustices of the world. The drink helped him forget about his father, the expectations of Dr. Crawford and most importantly the death of his colleague, Dr. Bennett.

With the moon high in the night sky Ainsley staggered back to Dr. Bennett's house. He walked through the dark streets of Picklow without a care in the world, nor any concern for his safety. Had he been sober, or even slightly less inebriated, his walk home would have been far less enjoyable.

 

Ainsley woke with the chamber pot at his side, within it the contents of his stomach. The sunlight, blindingly bright, streamed in from his east facing window drenching him in a warmth that only made him want to hurl once more. His head throbbed with tight, reoccurring pulses that became even more heightened when he opened his eyes. Trying to get away from the pain, Ainsley pulled away and fell from the bed. He landed on the hard floor with a thud, smashing his elbow on the dresser and spilling the chamber pot as he recoiled in pain.

He would have laughed had the entire situation, the headache, the fall, and the vomit, not been completely his own doing. This performance, and many variations of it, had played out many times since college. The drink dulled his senses and, on certain occasions, the women completed his circle of self-loathing.

He must have fallen asleep again, sprawled out on the floor because the next time he opened his eyes he was staring into the face of Jonas.

“What a disturbing sight,” Jonas said as he stood over Ainsley. “That's one way to die.”

Ainsley pulled the bed covers from the bed and used them to cover his naked body while watching his friend circle the bed. Jonas slipped into the desk chair, and glanced over the medical texts Ainsley had left out a few nights before. “Some light reading?” he said, flipping over one of the books to have a look at its cover. He pursed his lips before returning the book to its original position.

Ainsley stood up, buttoning his pants, and looked at Jonas seated causally in his chair, hands folded on his lap and a smug look spreading across his face. Ainsley shook his head and continued to get dressed, “Never thought I'd see you here.”

“I'm full of surprises. Mrs. Crane let me in. She encouraged me to wake you. It's midday and you, my friend, look like you have had better mornings. Wild night?” Jonas asked, taking out a cigarette and holding it in his lips. “You haven't changed much.”

“There is no woman here,” Ainsley answered, spreading out his arms to reinforce his point.

“Today,” Jonas answered. “But that's because you aren't a total rogue and this isn't really your house.”

“Did you come here to chide me? So far from London?” Ainsley answered, allowing his annoyance to show.

“No actually,” Jonas answered matter-of-factly. “Thought life would be dull for you. Thought perhaps you needed a little diversion.” Jonas glanced around the ramshackle room. The bed clothes were twisted and bunched. Yesterday’s clothes scattered the plank wood floors as if thrown, first the shirt, then the trousers. “Never knew such a sleepy town presented such...formidable entertainment.”

“Nothing worse than the life you lead,” Ainsley pointed out.

“You have always had a way with the ladies. Wish I could be so damned lucky.” Jonas lit a match and drew from the flame at the end of his cigarette.

“Not luck, skill.” Ainsley pulled on a clean shirt and began buttoning it from the bottom up. The shirt was loose around his slender middle, his bare chest and stomach muscles clenched as he buttoned, though his physique was not what his friend remembered. In school Ainlsey was known for his physical and mental ability but now it seemed one had slipped while the other flourished.

Jonas allowed a smirk to spread across his face as he pulled the cigarette from his lips. “Old age is making you soft, I see.” A halo of smoke blew out from his lips and rose into the air around him.

Ainsley nearly smiled. Jonas was the only person from whom he would accept this treatment. They boxed together while in school, never against each other. That would have been too much like beating up a brother you actually liked. Jonas had introduced him to rugby and they ran whenever the need for freedom arose. Perhaps he was becoming a bit soft, as his friend stated, though not as soft as some, Ainsley reminded himself.

Jonas quickly changed the subject. “So tell me doctor, what brings you so far north? Can't imagine this place is better than your father's house.”

Ainsley raised an eyebrow. “But it is. That house is a tomb and I was rotting away in it. Dr. Bennett's letter could not have come at a better time.” Ainsley tucked his shirt into his trousers and adjusted his collar in the mirror on top of the bureau.

“You're sister seems to agree. She practically begged me to escort her up here.” Jonas took another drag of his cigarette and watched Ainsley closely as he spoke. “Two days journey with the beautiful Margaret, not a bad arrangement if you ask me.”

“She's here?” Ainsley quickly gave his mangled hair some attention and eyed the stubble appearing on his chin and jaw line. He'd have to shave but he knew his sister wouldn't care.

“We arrived late last night. Established ourselves at the Inn.”

“You must do a better job of getting straight to the point,” Ainsley pronounced as he slipped out the door.

 

He found Margaret in the kitchen with Mrs. Crane. Both women wore shabby aprons with kitchen stains of yesterday smeared into the fibers. Mrs. Crane's apron suited her like a daily uniform worn by servants and tradesmen. Margaret, on the other hand, looked out of place in her taffeta dress with ribbon trims and a shabby apron splashed over her front. Her hands were wrist deep in flour and dough as she leaned over a wooden pastry board.

Ainsley could see Mrs. Crane was enjoying her new pupil's presence, but Margaret looked immensely uncomfortable with the task assigned to her.

“Now deary, just move your hands like kneading bread.”

“Kneading bread?” Margaret laughed nervously. “Mrs. Crane, I have never kneaded bread in my life.”

Mrs. Crane's sing-song tone halted abruptly at the revelation. The woman, who no doubt has spent the majority of her life in the kitchen, was speechless. She glanced to the lumpy dough in front of them. “Tis no wonder you ain't snagged a husband yet.” Mrs. Crane grabbed for the dough and began kneading furiously to smooth out the lumps and work the remaining flour into it.

“Don't be so hard on her, Mrs. Crane,” Ainsley called out from the behind the door frame, finally allowing his presence to be known. “Our father never allowed her to step foot in our kitchen at home.”

Margaret smiled when she saw her brother. “Good morning Peter,” Ainsley walked over to his little sister, who was not so little anymore, and embraced her. When he left London, he was so desperate to get away, he had never thought he would miss the remarkably easy companionship of his sister. When she pulled away she quickly apologized for getting flour over his clothes. “I'm a mess.” It was then she caught sight of his growing facial whiskers, unkempt hair and noticed an unmistakable smell of gin surrounding him. Margaret frowned. “You don't look too good yourself.” She touched the side of his face and scratched his budding whiskers with her fingers. “Do they not have barbers here in Picklow?”

“Wash your hands then,” Mrs. Crane called out from behind them. She had already molded the dough into bread tins and was placing a cloth over them to let them rise. Once Margaret had washed her flour coated hands, Ainsley pulled her away leaving Mrs. Crane to finish her morning duties.

“I would have died in there had you not come to rescue me,” Margaret confessed to him as they walked to the parlour. “Either that or I would have killed myself in that batter. I cannot understand how women can do that work all day long and not be driven absolutely batty.”

Ainsley chuckled. “Some women like it. Mother does.”

“Yes but that is only because she doesn't have to. She can enter and exit the kitchen as much as she likes and dinner will still be on the table later.” The tone of the conversation turned less jovial, and became more pained. Speaking of their mother and father dampened their happy reunion.

“Father never liked it but Mother never did listen to him much anyway.” Ainsley smiled at the memory of his headstrong mother, and realized how much his sister was like her.

“He absolutely forbade me from going anywhere near that room of the house. And I listened. Unlike another offspring of his I know.”

The pair took a seat in two winged back chairs facing each other.

“How is Father?” Ainsley dared to ask. “I am surprised he gave you permission to come?”

Margaret avoided his gaze and bit her lower lip.

“Father knows you’re here, does he not?”

“I wasn't travelling alone. Jonas escorted me,” Margaret confessed.

“And why was Jonas going to Tunbridge Wells?”

Margaret spoke after a moment of hesitation. “Because I begged him to.”

A look of revelation spread over Ainsley's face. “Oh,” he said with a smile. “I understand.”

“Oh Peter, it's not like that. I needed to get out of that house. Father has been absolutely dreadful. He's worse since you left. He is vexed with Mother.”

“He is always vexed with Mother.”

Margaret shook her head. “You should not have left, Peter.”

Ainsley sighed and slid back into the chair. “How could I stay? My position at the hospital takes priority. I cannot risk my career for the sake of my tumultuous family.”

“There are rumours of divorce. I do not think I can stand another minute under the scrutiny.”

“Is this why you came to see me? To get away from the tittle tattle of London society?” Ainsley laughed at this, aware of the many rumours circulated at his family's expense. If a scandal did not occur naturally, society was more than willing to conjure up a false one.

“Not exactly.”

“You will have to steel yourself, Margaret. One day we will all find ourselves on the wrong side of the society pages but it is not the end of the world.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” Margaret asked. For a moment Ainsley thought she might cry.

“But a divorce, Peter. How can they get a divorce?”

Ainsley could not hide his amusement. The thought of such a turn of events seemed laughable. That his Mother and Father could suffer for so long, making pretenses and playing the part of marital bliss knowing full well they despised each other insufferably, only to risk a scandal by way of divorce was highly unlikely. They made each other miserable, but if there was one thing Ainsley had learned in recent years it was that his parents would have rather suffered silently than meet such an end.

“I doubt it, Margaret. Mother will live in Tunbridge Wells and Father will remain in London, as he always has. They will not risk a divorce. Now please, no more of this. I have far more pressing concerns this morning.”

“The girl?”

“Young woman actually. She is your age, if she is a day. I was with her all yesterday.” Ainsley allowed his gaze to wander as the image of the helpless Lillian came to mind. She had clung to him in her darkest moment and relied on him to save her. He wanted so much to live up to her expectations. “Her agony pains me.”

“Is she in that much pain?”

“And more,” Ainsley confessed. “She's teetering in this world and the next and..” his voice trailed off. “.. and she is depending on me to save her.”

“And you can, you will,” Margaret exclaimed without a hint of doubt.

Ainsley forced a smile but avoided her gaze.

Jonas entered the room, disrupting their conversation. Margaret quickly pushed her tears away and forced a smile.

“Where is Dr. Bennett?” Jonas asked. “I should very much like to make his acquaintance.”