Chorus of the Dead

Chapter 25

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."