Chapter 25

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

 

The manor house remained somber, possessing a look that marked it as nearly uninhabited. The windows were dark and closed off by heavy drapery. In the dim November afternoon no light pierced the dull, gray exterior. The stone which was used to erect its walls looked like frozen blocks etched from the north tundra. It could be said that a dark cloud, a curse, had befallen the family who lived there and Ainsley saw a glimpse of this foreboding as he made his way up to the building’s front steps. Ainsley did not believe in curses. No one, not even the rich and powerful, were immune to the tragedies of life.

The maid showed little emotion, neither pleasure or pain, when she answered the door and escorted Ainsley inside.

“Is Miss Lillian in her room?” Ainsley asked, allowing the maid to take his coat.

“She is sleeping sir,” she answered demurely. “But Miss Elizabeth is preparing to bring food to her presently.” She pointed over her shoulder, leading his gaze down the hall to the kitchen.

With a great sense of liberty, Ainsley slipped through the door behind the main staircase and descended into the kitchen.

Elizabeth stood at the table in the center of the room placing a steaming bowl of dark soup on a tray while the young Mary stood next to her rolling out pastry dough. Cook stood at the stove placing a large roaster into the scullery. She raked some coals into a Dutch oven and placed an unbaked pie inside before closing the lid and placing more glowing coals and embers on top.

“Tea please!” Elizabeth called over the busy hum of the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to see Ainsley at the doorway. Startled, her expression turned sour when she saw him. The servant who had brought him in quickly made a curtsey and retreated from the room. Elizabeth placed a hand on one hip. “Another inquisition?” she asked.

“I have come to see Lillian.”

“You can't. She has been resting. I don't want anything to disturb her. Least of all you.” Elizabeth reached behind her waist and released her apron. Her words were short and gruff. Her movement about the room matched her tone. Ainsley wondered if the young woman, accustomed to servants and finery, often helped in the kitchen for she seemed quite at home amongst them. “She has been acting rather strangely since you left yesterday,” Elizabeth explained. As she moved around the kitchen she kept one eye on Ainsley who remained by the door.

Elizabeth's gaze met his and she halted her movement. Her cheeks were freckled, Ainsley noted, the marks of a girl who once loved the outdoors. For a moment, he could see her as a child, not so different from Josephine, prancing the halls behind him in crinoline and kid boots begging to go outside. Now she was older, less daring and looking more and more like her mother every day. This was it, Ainsley thought, the age when silly girls become serious women and never look back. He decided to examine his sister the next time he saw her, perhaps she would possess that look as well.

“Is she better or worse?” Ainsley asked. He waited for a reply, expecting something curt.

She tore her gaze from him. “Difficult to say.” Her manner softened as she spoke. She hung her apron on a hook beside him and paused. “She has not asked me to play for her. That in itself is rather odd.”

“The piano, you mean?”

“Yes. She often likes to hear me play although I couldn't tell you why. I have about as much talent with the ivory as this here table top.” She rapped the top of the table with her knuckle and let out a slight laugh. “She misses playing, I can tell. You'd think she'd try harder to get better if she really wanted to play again.”

Ainsley sighed. “You cannot blame a patient for their illness.”

Elizabeth knitted her brow and gave a wry smile. “She has a sick heart. That is all. She mourns for our father and now Josephine. She is my sister and I love her but... she hasn't the strongest constitution.”

“What's on the menu today?” Ainsley asked, moving closer to the prepared tray for better inspection.

“Beef broth and tea.” Cook replied sternly appearing beside Elizabeth. She placed a small teapot on the tray beside a clean cup and saucer. “Go on now Mary,” she prodded the young pastry chef. “Take off your apron and help Miss Lloyd take this to her sister now.” Mary moved swiftly, untying her apron strings.

A middle bell rang above the door. All four of them stopped and looked up at the ominous sign.

“Hurry now child!” The woman cried. “She is awake!”

“Come now Mary,” Elizabeth said with a wry smile. “Let us see her mood this day.”

Mary gave a nod of anticipation and the robust woman, the head cook, simply rolled her eyes.

Mary slipped her grip around the handles of the tray and followed Elizabeth out the door. Ainsley watched for a moment before turning to Cook. A wave of relief spread over her face.

“Not easily satisfied is she then?” Ainsley asked.

“You could say that again. That child has been ruined. All that work on the stage, touring around Europe, performing and such. It's no wonder she has turned slightly sour.”

“Perhaps it was all the attention.”

“Well now, that is what I have said, many a time. She had a sweet disposition before her father gave her the notion that she was above everyone else. It seemed every time she practiced Miss Lillian become worse and worse. Lord I ain't never seen such a sour child.” Cook returned to the stove and lifted a lid on the pot. She stirred it once before coming back to the table to finish the pie Mary had been forced to leave in such a hurry. “Ain't no good prescribing her tonics and such. She refuses to take 'em. She's been caught more 'an once pouring 'em bottles in the flower vases.”

Ainsley raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” the cook continued, “it's like she's punishing herself. Making herself suffer as her father and sister suffered. I'd say she was asking to die, if you ask me.”

“Do you remember when Mr. Lloyd fell ill?” Ainsley asked, leaning on the counter ledge while the cook worked on the pie dough.

“Yes, sir. They just came back from a trip to… can't recall where. He fell ill on the train, Miss Lillian said. Lingered on for a week and that quack could do nothing for 'em. I told Mrs. Lloyd she needed someone else, someone young like yourself who don't resort to bleeding and blistering a poor man when he's ill.”

“Do you remember what ailed him? What were his symptoms?”

“The chamber maid was run ragged. Chamber pot after chamber pot. Coming out at both ends. I was shocked the old man had so much in 'im.” A nervous chuckle escaped her lips before she tightened them. “I shouldn't be making light of the dead,” she said as way of an apology. “We could tell he was wasting away.”

“Did anyone stay with him? A nurse, perhaps?”

The cook shook her head as she lifted the rolled out dough onto another pie plate. “They all took their turn watching over him, 'cept for Master Lloyd who saw to the mills while his father was away.”

Ainsley nodded. “Were Josephine and Lillian in contact with him?”

“We all were at some point.” She shrugged. “I suppose Miss Lillian and Josie caught whatever done him in. It is only a matter of time before Lillian is called away too.” The woman broke down. She bunched her eyes together in an effort to squelch the tears, but to no avail. She turned, and raised her apron to her eyes.

Ainsley struggled to keep her focused. “When he ate did his condition worsen?”

“He did not eat much of anything...”

“Who brought his food?” His questions came fast and almost frantic.

“Usually a handmaid though Mrs. Lloyd and Miss Lloyd approved everything that left this kitchen for him.”

“Did Mrs. Lloyd or Miss Lloyd serve him most?”

“Well Mrs. Lloyd didn't like seeing her husband in such a way, she'd often ask Miss Elizabeth to see to it...” Her voice trailed off. “What are you saying Doctor?”

Ainsley was not given the chance to answer. Outside of the door behind him a noise sprung up. He could hear loud wailing and another voice cursing as they descended the kitchen stairs. Mary charged through the door first, her hair and clothes soggy. She was crying into her sodden dress and shielded her face from Ainlsey's concerned stare.

“That sister of mine can fetch her own food!” Elizabeth yelled as she walked through the door. “Mary needs some new clothes.”

“What happened?” Cook asked, trying to sooth the tears of the young maid.

“She tossed the bowl of soup at Mary! She accused us all of trying to poison her and says she will not consume another bite.” Elizabeth fell hopeless into a chair and slipped her fingers through her hair. It was then that she remembered Ainsley was in the room watching this entire exchange. “You did this to her. You filled her head with the nonsense of poisoning.”

“She feels targeted,” Ainsley explained. “She said as much to me.”

Elizabeth shook her head in annoyance and turned to Cook. “She said someone poisoned Josephine and she was not going to be next.” Elizabeth rubbed her face in exasperation. “She's been saying that for a week now, though she has never acted like this. She raised the bowl right off the tray, didn't she Mary? And hurled the dish, soup and all, at both of us!”

“Lord help us!” Cook said.

Elizabeth turned to the cook, her expression channeling that of her mother. “Remember your place!” she snapped.

This was a side of Elizabeth that Ainsley had never seen. Upon the reprimand, Cook escorted Mary from the room.

“Perhaps I should talk to her now,” Ainsley offered.

Elizabeth shrugged, resigned to her inability to improve the situation. She slipped the key to Lillian's bedroom in Ainsley's hand but refused to look him in the eye as she did so.

Ainsley left her there, alone in the kitchen, and climbed the stairs to Lillian's room.

The room was silent when he entered and he found Lillian sitting at her window, crying. She turned to him as he walked in and smiled while wiping her tear stained cheeks. “I know what you must think of me,” she said, so softly Ainsley almost didn't hear.

Ainsley slipped past the shattered pieces of porcelain that remained on her rug, the remnants of the soup that were not dripping from Mary's dress oozed into the wood floors beneath. “I think you are scared,” Ainsley answered, taking a seat opposite her on the edge of the bed.

Lillian hesitated, as if unwilling to admit that she was indeed scared. She smiled suddenly. “I am feeling so much better,” she said as brightly as she could muster. “But I am terribly hungry.”

Ainsley nodded. He reached out to tuck a rogue tendril of hair behind her ear. The dark circles under her eyes highlighted how tired she was. She looked as though she hadn't slept in weeks, and perhaps she hadn't.

“I have an idea,” he said at long last. “I'll be back in one moment.” He left the room briefly and when he returned he handed Lillian her housecoat which she put on without question. As soon as she was decent Ainsley slipped his arms around her and scooped her up. Instinctively Lillian clung to his neck and shoulders as he carried her down the hall. Ainsley ignored the feelings of warmth between their close bodies and carefully concentrated on the stairs in front of him. Easily he carried her body around the staircase and passed the door to the dining room where the three healthy Lloyd family members dined in abject silence. Only the muted sounds of silverware touching china came from the room.

Ainsley felt Lillian's grip tighten as they passed and she nuzzled her face deeper into his neck. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. He dared not look to her, their faces were so close.

They descended the back stairs and entered the dark kitchen where the butler and handmaid were already placing a recently acquired cushioned chair. Gently, Ainsley slipped Lillian into the chair and took a throw blanket from another maid who stood close by. He nodded to the help in thanks. Cook stood at the hearth fire, silent, a hand perched on her round hip as Ainsley placed the blanket around Lillian.

“You say you know your way around a kitchen, Dr. Ainsley. I will take you at your word,” Cook said sternly. “But if I find one kettle out of place...” she raised a fist in the air as warning.

“I promise to be respectful,” Ainsley answered with a hint of humility. He bowed slightly.

“Dr. Ainsley?” Lillian asked looking around the room as the faces of the hired help looked on. Mary, somewhat cleaned up from the prior escapade remained hidden toward the back and looked on with caution. The inner workings of the household were meant to be hidden from the residents of the house.

“Trust me,” Ainsley said. He turned to the hired help, “Ladies, if you wouldn't mind.” He motioned to the door with his hand asking them to leave. All the under maids did as he bid but Cook did not move. “I can tolerate a parlour chair in my kitchen, and would even risk the wrath of my Mistress but I will not be removed from my post by any man or beast.” She huffed. “I ain't about to leave, young sir,” she pronounced with respectful vehemence. “This 'ere is my kitchen.”

Ainsley looked to Lillian who was trying not to laugh. The young doctor shrugged and resigned to her presence. “Very well,” he answered, “You will not help me then, not even for a moment.”

Cook eyed him suspiciously and reluctantly agreed. “The scullery is just around the corner here,” she said pointing to a room off of the kitchen. “I could finish the clean up from dinner and still remain close to keep a watchful eye.” Ainsley saw Cook eye the eager Miss Lillian who sat in the parlour chair, blanket pulled up to her chin, knees gathered to her chest. There was a smile of delight on her pale lips. “A smile is such a rare thing in this house even in the best of times,” Cook said, as she slipped into the scullery slowly.

With Cook in the scullery, Ainsley stood on the other side of the room, the long butcher block table separating him from his patient. He removed his overcoat and draped it over a nearby stool. Tying an apron around his waist, he glanced around the room for something he could make. His plan was simple. He would make Lillian a good dinner right before her eyes so she could see no one had poisoned it. Ainsley knew that with a bit of effort he could convince her that he, of all people, could be trusted.

There was a kettle already at a boil over the cook stove and so at first he made a fresh pot of tea. He was careful to perform each task in full view so that she could not question him. “Now, Miss Lillian, may I ask how you like your tea?”

“Just a bit of honey, please,” she answered meekly before biting her lower lip.

Ainbsley could feel her watching him as he fumbled slightly with the tea leaves. He wondered if this was her first time out of her bed chamber since she first fell ill. He presented her cup of tea, small specks of leaves floating on the surface, with an apologetic smile.

Steam rose from the liquid as she held it with both hands wrapped around the china cup. Ainsley watched with amazement as Lillian sipped her tea ravenously. He saw her eye it lovingly before raising it to her lips again. “You must be famished,” he said as he watched.

Lillian's trance was interrupted and she looked at him over her tea cup. She nodded but said nothing.

“Well, I will get to it then.” He glanced around the room and saw a bunch of carrots resting on the shelf, and some herbs that were hung to dry above them. With a quick scan he saw parsley, onions, and butter. In a crockery jar he found a bit of rice and was instantly reminded of a soup his mother made for him once. He began by peeling and chopping the carrots. He became very much aware of two sparkling eyes watching him closely as he worked. With one carrot peeled he offered it to Lillian. She eyed it suspiciously.

“Try it,” he offered. He broke off a piece and popped it into his mouth to demonstrate before holding a piece out to her. As a child it was nothing for him to pluck a carrot from the ground, brush it on his pant legs and munch away. His mother's kitchen garden, her special sanctuary in which no servant was allowed admittance, was abundant with herbs and vegetables. When denied access to the kitchen Ainsley and his sister always found a treat in the garden.

Lillian took the whole carrot and gingerly put it to her lips. Aware of his watchful eye, she nibbled a piece from the whole. “You eat carrots like this? Raw?”

Ainsley laughed. “All the time.” A raw carrot plucked from the garden was so common place to him as a child. How could it be that Lillian had never had a raw carrot before?

“My mother used to say carrots are good for your eyes,” he said as he turned his attention back to the bunch in front of him.

“And are they?” Lillian asked, “Doctor?”

Ainsley smiled. “A healthy diet is the first step to better health. Vegetables are nature's wonder food.” His knife hit the chopping board with marked regularity. “Food is our best defense against disease.”

“And what if the food is what is making you sick?”

“Then I would say, ‘tis not the food, but something else. A way in which it was prepared, or stored--”

“Or if something is added to it?”

His chopping stopped but he didn't take his eyes from the carrots. “Yes.” Ainsley let out a breath and looked up, leaning slightly on the table. “What you need is to gain your strength back. If I have to come here every day to make you your meals I will. And I will sit here and watch you eat until I am satisfied.”

“You would do that for me?” Lillian beamed.

“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “I'm your doctor.”

Lillian's grin slipped away. He turned to the stove and started cooking the chopped carrots and onion in a bit of butter.

Cook slipped in from the scullery and threw another log into the cook stove. “Fire's nearly out,” she said dryly. “Wasn't expecting to do any more cooking today.” She glared at Ainsley like he was an intruder she was only barely tolerating. With her hands on her hips she inspected his concoction with a raised eyebrow. “And where did a man like yerself learn to cook?”

Ainsley smiled. “My mother, ma'am.” he answered willingly, “I'm afraid our cook wasn't as well versed as you. My mother often stepped in because she couldn't bear the thought of us eating so poorly.”

Cook grinned.

“You wouldn't happen to have a splash of brandy, would you?” Ainsley asked eyeing the vegetables as they cooked.

“What for?” Cook asked her eyes narrowing.

“For the soup, of course.”

She pursed her lips and pulled a small bottle of brandy from one of the cupboards. She placed it on the butcher's block behind him. “I can finish if you like,” she offered.

“No thank you ma'am.” Ainsley glanced to Lillian. “I'd like to do it, if you don't mind.”

“Be sure to clean up now, when you are done. Don't want to come down in the morning with twice as much work to do.”

“No ma'am. I will take care of everything.”

Cook lingered for a moment more. She walked slowly to the back of the kitchen, toward the servant stairs. Before heading up she turned, “I will send the Butler in intermittent-like... just to make sure you are behaving like a gentleman.”

Ainsley tilted his head down “I would expect nothing less.”

Appeased, Cook nodded before turning to leave.

Lillian nursed her tea, cupping the porcelain teacup in both hands. The young woman looked longingly at the food Ainsley was preparing. “What are you making?” she asked, craning her neck to see.

Ainsley smiled. “It's a surprise.”

The day had slipped away, conceding its command to the arrival of night. Ainsley lit a few candle sticks and spread them out on the table between Lillian and himself to give some light to his preparations. He worked in silence for a long while, his mind giving the task at hand his full attention when Lillian spoke up.

“My mother tells me I should not trust you,” she said, placing her now empty tea cup on the butcher block and sinking further into the folds of her warm blanket.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, my sister too. They say I am becoming too attached.”

Ainsley smiled a crooked smile. “Are you?” he asked while stirring the nearly ready soup.

Even in the dim light, he saw her smile. The pause that followed unnerved him. She was either thinking of a way to politely agree with them or thinking of a way to subdue her regard.

“Perhaps I should be more guarded with you. You don't plan to stay in Picklow forever, do you?”

Ainsley shook his head reluctantly. “My work is best performed in London.” He filled two bowls with the warm carrot soup and garnished it with a sprig of parsley.

“You will leave me then.” Lillian shifted uncomfortably in her chair as he approached her with the soup bowl.

“Not until I know you are well.”

“I wish you could stay.” She lifted her gaze as he placed the bowl in front of her. She reached out her hand and touched his before he could pull it away. “I wish I could go with you.” Her voice was nearly at a whisper but her eyes were determined.

Ainsley hesitated. He met her gaze squarely and did not move right away. “I wish you could to,” he found himself saying before he could stop himself. He pulled away, reluctantly, and fetched his own bowl of soup which waited for him at the other end of the butcher block.

“It had to be this way,” he heard Lillian say as he positioned his soup across from hers. “Otherwise, we would never have met.” She smiled sweetly.

She was stunning and he found himself adoring everything about her . Her smile, her whispering voice, her challenging eyes. In essence she was every beautiful woman he had ever beheld all together in one person. There was a sadness though, something that veiled her true feelings from him, something that only enticed him to find out more, to discover every inch of her inside and out.

It was ludicrous really, that he should fall so quickly for someone he was employed to assist. If she liked him, it was because her family didn't. His profession represented a certain amount of intrigue though he doubted that she truly wanted to be a surgeon's wife. Inadvertently a smile spread over his face as he thought about it.

“What amuses you?” Lillian asked. She had seen his mischievous smile and felt no shame in calling attention to it.

“I was thinking of you in one week's time, fully recovered and playing the piano once more,” Ainsley answered. It was only a half lie.

“And you so far away in London, you won't be around to hear it.”

Ainsley lowered his gaze to his soup. It wasn't that he wanted to return to London, it was just there was no acceptable reason for him to stay. “Perhaps I will have the pleasure just once before I go.”

“Perhaps.”

Ainsley watched as Lillian drew the soup to her mouth with the spoon. She licked her lips as she lowered the spoon back to the bowl. “Tastes wonderful,” she said, taking up her spoon again. “Your mother must be a delight.”

Ainsley smiled nervously. He wasn't prepared to broach the subject of his family with her. His mother, father and their antics were of greater consequence to his reputation than his profession and he wondered if Lillian would be as understanding if she knew the truth.

“She is a beautiful woman,” he said, “both inside and out.”

“Does she approve of your profession?” Lillian asked, slowly dipping her spoon in her soup to break the surface.

“She's always been supportive of anything I wished to do. My father on the other hand is another matter. He would rather I study business or law.”

“Why did you choose to be a surgeon?”

Ainsley smiled. “For many reasons. The most important is that I wish to help people. I can offer peace in a terrible situation or I can track an illness before others die.” He stared at the opposite wall while he spoke. “I have seen some terrible things in this world,” he said in a near whisper. “Things I never thought possible until they were in front of me on the examination table. Sometimes I think if I were a better man I could have saved them. I could save us all from such hardship and pain.” He looked up and saw Lillian staring at him.

“You are a good man, Peter. I know you will save me.” She smiled sweetly then and lowered her gaze to her soup.

“Do you like your soup?” Ainsley asked, trying to free his mind from the harsh memories of the work that awaited him in London.

“Very much.” Lillian smiled. “Can I have some more?” she asked, titling her bowl to reveal it had been emptied of its contents.

 

 

Lillian insisted on another cup of tea while Ainsley washed up the dishes. When he returned from the scullery Lillian was curled up in the chair beneath her blanket sleeping soundly. He blew out all of the candles but the one closest to her. As he bent to extinguish that one as well, he paused. The gentle curve of her cheek looked smooth and inviting, it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out to stroke it. She looked like an angel, innocent and naive. She looked so frail, so vulnerable. All he wanted to do was protect her, save her from whatever was making her ill.

Her body folded into his as he scooped her up from the chair. She hugged her arms around him again and buried her face in his neck. Blowing out the final candle, he left the room, carrying his patient up the stairs to her chamber.

Nestled into her bed, he hesitated to let her go. She held fast to him, preventing him from moving away. She seemed to wake slightly then, her eyes opening as she whispered, “Stay with me.”

Ainsley dared not move. He hadn't the strength to pull away nor did he have the audacity to act upon the undeniable urge to kiss her. He knew if he threw caution to the wind at that moment he would be compromising his position as her doctor. He knew, by the way she clung to him, that he would not be denied. Their faces were mere inches from each other and he could kiss her, wildly if he had any less resolve.

In a sudden surge of composure, he brushed his lips gently over the curve of her cheek and secretly hoped she would forget about it by morning. “I can't,” he whispered, and finally found the strength to pull away.