Chorus of the Dead

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Over the brink of it,

Picture it-think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it,

Then, if you can!

Ainsley did not realize how much he had drank until later that afternoon. The headache from two days prior had returned for an encore performance leaving him ill and nearly bed ridden. He lay on the couch, his feet propped up over the edge of the arm, his arms folded over his chest.

"Get up!"

Ainsley felt his feet collapse to the floor and it took him a minute before he realized they had been kicked off of the couch's arm. He felt a tug on his pillow, just a slight one before it was ripped from underneath his head so fast the back of his head hit the other arm of the couch suddenly and with a sharp pain that shot to the nerves behind his eyes.

"Ah!" Ainsley rolled over, clutching his sore head with his hand. Expecting his sister, Margaret, who was no doubt cross with him for his argument with Jonas, Ainsley opened his eyes to see Mrs. Crane standing over him. He gave out a yelp of embarrassment and rolled off the couch.

"Oh fiddlesticks. Ye ain't the first half drunk man I've seen, and I dare say, ye won't be the last." Mrs. Crane returned the pillow to its place on the couch. "Near half the day is already gone."

Ainsley remained on the floor for a moment, aware of Mrs. Crane's attempts to tidy the couch now that she had successfully removed him from it. He was equally aware of the exponentially growing headache throbbing relentlessly in his brain. "Mrs. Crane have you ever drank too much?" he groaned, only half cognizant of what he said.

"Dr. Ainsley, hold your tongue. I am a Christian woman and I will no longer allow that demon liquor into my life, either by my hand or anyone else's." She rounded the couch and stood over him, hands on hips, as if she were his governess come to scold him for breaking a priceless heirloom. "Get up now," she coaxed.

Ainsley clawed his way onto the couch, where he sat for a moment, head in hands. He squinted against the morning sun which only made the pain intensify. "I swear I will never have another drink again, if only you could take this blasted headache away."

He heard her tsk tsk him with her tongue before speaking. "Now, if only I could do that what a rich woman I would be."

Ainsley rubbed his temples as Mrs. Crane tidied the room around him. She eyed but dared not touch the microscope, the dissected stomach, and the medical texts haphazardly thrown down when Jonas stormed out. And then Ainsley remembered their argument, word for word, and he let his head drop into his hands. "I am such an ass," Ainsley mumbled into his hands.

"Come now, don't be so hard on ye self. Many a good man has fallen a time or two. You will find your sober feet again. Breakfast will be ready momentarily, though I daresay it is more likely to be lunch if you go by the clock."

A few moments later he met her in the dining room, clean shaven and properly dressed, though the haggard look on his face gave away his pain. Mrs. Crane shook her head at him before loading his plate with eggs, and fried ham.

"Perhaps you should call on Miss Dawson, she may have a remedy for you?"

Ainsley's shoulders dropped as he shook his head. "What kind of doctor am I to be if I cannot relieve my own headache?"

"I'd say one with a headache."

Ainsley could hardly stomach the thought of food but he ate some anyway for Mrs. Crane's sake. The eggs seemed harmless, even welcome but the ham was far too heavy for his churning stomach and he soon regretted the three bites he had taken. "Perhaps just tea then," Ainsley said at last.

Mrs. Crane shook her head as she took his plate away.

"Suppose she would not take me, Miss Dawson, I mean. Perhaps she would not have anything for me."

"Come now," Mrs. Crane answered with a laugh. "What single woman do you know, all on her own, would turn down a paying client?"

"I don't know," Ainsley's voice trailed off for a moment. "I seem to run into her all over the place. She is so quiet and reserved. She hardly ever meets my gaze." Mrs. Crane left for a moment, through the kitchen door, and returned with a teapot.

"She is a good woman, kind, sensible," she said and began pouring Ainsley's tea.

"Her daughter too, she won't look at me. She hides or runs off when I come near."

"Did you say Miss Dawson's daughter?"

"Yes, the girl won't look at me and I swear she hides from me." Ainsley hesitated. Was he mistaken.

Mrs. Crane laughed nervously and shook her head. "Miss Dawson doesn't have a daughter."

Ainsley banged on Miss Dawson's door with a closed fist, ignoring the rattling the force caused on its hinges. "Miss Dawson!" he banged again before scanning the yard for any children, whomever they belonged to. Standing there for some time, he was beginning to wonder if she was even home. He was surprised when the door opened. "Dr. Ainsley, what in heaven's name--"

He did not wait. He pushed himself in and quickly surveyed the room. There were no toys or school books or slates or any such things to indicate a child lived there. No tiny shoes, or sweaters. Nothing to say a child had ever lived there. The cottage was neat and tidy as it had been the day when he first visited. He found himself whirling around, moving books and pillows, glass jars and cooking pots, looking for anything to tell him he was not losing his mind.

"Dr. Ainsley, what is the meaning of this intrusion?" Miss Dawson stood at her door, which she had probably only closed to keep the draught out. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I could have been with a patient."

Ainsley marched forward and grabbed Miss Dawson by the shoulders. "Where is she?"

"Who? I don't know who you are talking about. Unhand me." Miss Dawson struggled under his tight grip and he relented.

"The girl. The girl I keep seeing at your side, or in your yard, or following you. She was under the piano when Mrs. Lloyd nearly banished you from the manor."

Miss Dawson peered at him suspiciously. "I don't know who you are talking about. What girl?"

"Your daughter, or at least who I thought was your daughter." Ainsley turned from her, raking his fingers through his damp hair. "I have seen her, clear as day, now where is she?" Ainsley was nearly out of breath but he could hardly contain his aggravation. He felt as if he was going mad.

"My daughter," Miss Dawson began, swallowing hard, "is buried in the Picklow cemetery. You saw her internment yourself," she hugged her body, pulling her shawl tighter over her shoulders, "beside Walter Lloyd Sr."