Chapter 38

Into her rest.—

Cross her hands humbly

 

Ainsley walked into the parlour expecting to see Margaret and Lillian but was surprised to find no one. It was extremely late and he wondered if Lillian had offered Margaret one of the guest rooms so that she could sleep. The rest of the house was dark and quiet exhibiting no evidence of the drama from earlier.

Knowing he could not possibly sleep Ainsley stood in front of the fire for a long while watching the ribbons of flames clinging to the logs, licking the dry wood and consuming every square inch. The words Elizabeth spoke, the confession she refused to give, was her final act of defiance. He could scarcely believe her last ditch attempt at naming Lillian, one of the victims as the perpetrator as well. How could a person poison themselves, and moreover, why? Bargaining, he reasoned, anything to save herself from the gallows. Elizabeth was right about one thing, she would hang once the jury found out she was the murderess who snuffed the life from little Josephine Lloyd. Her half sister no less.

Ainsley rubbed his mouth and chin, the stubble freshly grown during that day scratching his hand. He let out a long breath he had not realized he was holding, and then held his eyelids closed with his fingertips, rubbing his temples. Besides, he could scarcely believe Lillian capable.

He stopped himself suddenly. He could no more discount Lillian as the murderer than he could himself without looking at the facts. Walter and Josephine died so suddenly, and yet Lillian languished for so long. Her illness was drawn out. If Elizabeth wanted her dead, why would she not increase her doses? By all rights, Lillian should have died months ago, and yet she lingered. Her symptoms were weak. She felt strong that first day he met her. He was unsure what to make of it since she appeared to be in near perfect health.

But Lillian? What was her motive?

Jealousy.

Suddenly aware of another presence in the room, Ainsley turned and saw Lillian standing at the door. “I didn't want to disturb you,” she said softly. She stood almost completely in darkness, though the light colour of her night gown gave form to her otherwise darkened figure.

“Not at all,” he said, shaking his head trying to shake the rebellious thoughts that had just occurred to him. How could he believe her capable of such atrocities?

Lillian came into the room. “Where is she?”

“Your brother's study. Do not worry. She is well guarded.”

Lillian nodded. “I knew it all this time. I must have not wanted to believe it.” She walked past Ainsley and headed for the window seat. The falling snow could be seen on the opposite side of the glass but nothing could be seen beyond.

“Murderers are often not what they seem,” Ainsley said, in an attempt to comfort her.

“That is the truth of it, is it not?” Lillian glanced to Ainsley and quickly turned away. She took a seat at the window, her nightgown falling over the ledge. She pulled her knees up and hugged her body, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. “Perhaps she did not mean to kill Josephine. I should like to think that it was an accident.”

“How so?” Ainsley asked, inching closer.

“Father was a brute. We all feared him but...” her voiced became a sudden whisper. “She must have just meant to make her ill, never intending to kill our sister.” Lillian turned to Ainsley, revealing tears that spilled from her eyes. “She must feel positively awful.”

Ainsley reached out a trembling hand to comfort her. He knew without a doubt she spoke of her own remorse, and not Elizabeth's. Her words were practically a confession though he was hardly in a position to act upon his knowledge. All he had by way of evidence was Elizabeth's desperate attempt to shift blame, and now Lillian's subtle acknowledgement of her own guilty conscience.

“Dr. Ainsley, come quick!” Cook was at the door, out of breath.

“What is it?”

“It's the Mistress, she's—” Cook looked as if she could cry and Ainsley quickly agreed to follow. She led him out into the front lawn, the rapidly falling snow covering his shoes and slipping into his socks as he ran alongside the servant. She pointed above them toward the house. At first Ainsley had a hard time seeing what she was pointing toward. The large flakes of snow rushed at him wildly, almost blinding him.

“Mrs. Lloyd intends to take her life!”

And then Ainsley saw, Mrs. Lloyd perched on the second floor balcony, her skirts on the wrong side of the stone barrier, her hands grasping the railing, the only thing which prevented her from falling.

“Mrs. Lloyd, don’t!” he yelled through cupped hands. “Mrs. Lloyd!” She gave no indication that she had heard him. Ainsley looked to Lillian beside him. She was looking up at her mother. “It's not high enough,” he said to her. “She’ll be maimed but it is not high enough to kill her.” Though it was dark, he could see a smile spreading over her face, a smile of glee.

Ainsley tried to run past her to the house, but Lillian stopped him. She grabbed his arm and made him turn to her. “Let her do it,” she said. “And then you and I can go to London.”

Ainsley searched her face, not believing the words she spoke to him.

“She won't let me go otherwise. This is our only chance.”

He tried to pull away but she kept her grip tight. Her nails began to scratch his skin below his rolled up sleeve.

“Don't you love me!” she yelled after him when he broke free.

Ainsley ran for the front door, and slipped on the sleek marble tiles in the foyer, the snow from his shoes melting into his socks as he ran up the flight of stairs. He headed toward the west wing, guessing the balcony was off of her own suite of rooms.

After fumbling he way through various rooms, he found her on the snow covered balcony, her hands almost slipping from the ice encrusted stone. Her fingers were red from the cold, her face looking equally as pained by the searing sub-zero temperatures. “I am finished,” she said, as if sensing his close presence. “She has shamed us all.”

Ainsley inched closer but Mrs. Lloyd cringed, so he stepped back again. “If your intention is to die,” he began in a soft tone, “You will fail. The drop you face is a mere twenty feet. You will be maimed and languish in agony for days, weeks even.”

“I am already in agony!” she yelled over the wind. “She may not have been my child, Dr. Ainsley, but I loved her. More than any woman could love a child born of her husband's sin.”

“It is evident, Mrs. Lloyd. All around me I see the evidence to that love.”

“She is gone and everyone will think I did it because she wasn't born from my body,” Mrs. Lloyd cried openly but never loosened her grip on the railing that anchored her. “I did not cry when my husband died. He was a monster and it was all I could do to not dance on his grave.” She turned to Ainsley, her face streaked with tears and melting snow flakes. “I knew it was Lillian even then but I did not stop her. I was grateful to her for having the strength I did not possess.”

“You knew it was Lillian all this time?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Lloyd confessed. “By the time Josephine died, I knew it was too late. I'd be accused of assisting in a murder.”

“So you didn't say anything.”

Mrs. Lloyd nodded. “I locked her in her room, for our safety. I saw her in the house at all hours of the night, walking and waiting. She'd leave the house and roam the grounds at night. I had to lock her in her room. I was afraid for my own life. But then you arrived and she seemed to be better. I was so hopeful that you had changed her. But I was wrong.” Mrs. Lloyd hung her head and glanced to the ground in front of her. “I bear a shame greater than you will ever know. I cannot be forgiven. I was damned to hell the day my husband died.” She leaned forward then, her eyes clenched tightly as she readied herself to jump.

“And what of Elizabeth? What of her fate? She will be sent to the gallows if you do not speak out. She will hang for Lillian's murders.” Ainsley dared to take a step forward.

Mrs. Lloyd looked to him. “Can you not help her?”

“I need you to help me.”

After a moment of palpable silence, Mrs. Lloyd nodded. “Maybe I can save one daughter.” Ainsley stepped closer, helping her over the railing with great care. Her body was practically a block of ice in his arms as he guided her back to the warmth of her room. He knew the fire was ablaze, just the thing to warm her quickly. They walked gingerly toward the door, aware of the growing ice on the balcony ledge.

Lillian appeared at the balcony door preventing them from going any further, her hands hidden behind her back. “Peter!” she yelled, “You should have let her jump.”