The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Three

by Farmer, Merry

  It wasn’t just Arabella that caught Marshall’s eye, though. Through the open church doors, he could see a flash of sunlight illuminating a billowing, white wedding dress. Lady E had arrived. He pulled out his pocket watch yet again.

  “She’s ten minutes early,” he muttered.

  “Dammit,” Jason hissed. He grasped Marshall’s arms. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Marshall gaped at him. “Why are you asking me? You are the one who agreed to this farce.”

  “I agreed to get your girls back,” Jason argued. “And because E’s support saved my integrity among my business connections in London.”

  “Did it?” Armstrong asked. “I’ve only ever heard people speak well of you. Your reputation is and has always been sterling.”

  Both Marshall and Jason stared at the man. Jason opened his mouth and looked as though he would either tell Armstrong off or ask for more. Instead, he whipped back to Marshall and asked, “Where is Lawrence?”

  Marshall frowned, glancing toward the back of the church once more. Lady E was making her way into the vestibule. “I haven’t seen Lawrence all day,” he said.

  “Mr. Smith?” Armstrong asked. “I saw him bright and early this morning, leading his lady love atop a horse toward the gypsy encampment by the lake, two suitcases in his hands.”

  “What?” Jason bellowed, loud enough to startle a few guests sitting in nearby pews.

  “Jolly romantic, if you ask me,” Armstrong went on. “Running away with the gypsies, leaving the cares of the world behind.” A dreamy look—at least, more dreamy than usual—filled his eyes. “Would that I could whisk my beloved away under cover of darkness, stealing off to India or the orient to begin a new life as—”

  “That bloody coward,” Jason growled. Both he and Marshall ignored Armstrong’s ramblings. “The least he could have done was wait until after the wedding to leave.”

  “The least he could have done was not leave at all,” Marshall added.

  Jason blinked at him. “Of course Lawrence is leaving. It was always going to happen.”

  “Brynthwaite is our home,” Marshall argued. “And the three of us are together at last.”

  “But it’s his turn,” Jason went on. “I left, then you left, and now it’s his turn to find more for himself out there in the world.”

  “Not when we’re finally all in the same place,” Marshall insisted.

  Jason shifted his weight and sent Marshall a look that was almost pitying. “Lawrence needs to stretch his legs,” he said. “We can no more keep him here for our own ends than he could have insisted we stay when our paths so clearly headed elsewhere.”

  “This is a terrible time for him to—”

  Marshall’s words were cut off as the organ blared into the first strains of a wedding march. He, Jason, and Armstrong turned to the back of the church as Lady Charlotte led Lady E through the doors to the back of the aisle, Polly following, holding Lady E’s train. George and Anthony Fretwell came in behind them, taking up spots at the back of the church as they glanced over the crowd, scowling. Marshall noted Arabella leaning closer to Reggie and the huge man narrowing his eyes at George.

  “Good lord,” Armstrong exclaimed as Lady E started up the aisle behind a cluster of young children in white dresses and suits, spreading pink rose petals. “Your other friend has abandoned his post. I shall have to stand up for him.”

  “Wait, what?” Jason asked as Armstrong shifted into place on Marshall’s other side.

  Marshall would have rolled his eyes and told the boob that he was not, under any circumstances and in any way, one of Jason’s groomsmen, but there wasn’t time. Lady E swept up the aisle at a far faster pace than Marshall would have expected, considering the woman’s penchant for soaking up attention. She wore a veil, but her greedy grin and serpentine smile was fixed on Jason.

  “Good Lord, what do I do?” Jason whispered, reaching toward Marshall. “What do I do? What do I do?”

  “You accept Mr. Johnson’s deal and claim the title of richest man in England,” Marshall said with a smirk that seemed wrong but couldn’t be stopped.

  Jason whipped to him with a scowl. “Not about the offer,” he hissed. “About the wedding.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Marshall hissed back as Lady E reached the front of the aisle.

  “Where’s Flossie?” Jason whispered pathetically.

  Lady E must have heard, because her plastered-on smile vanished. “She didn’t want to come,” she whispered, grabbing Jason’s arm and forcing him to stand with her. “She told me she’s furious with you and she never wants to see you again.”

  “She would never,” Jason whispered back.

  Rev. Charles stepped in front of them, a benign smile on his aged face. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony.”

  “Where is Flossie?” Jason repeated, louder than a whisper and with growing anger.

  “Forget about her,” Lady E growled back. “You’re marrying me.”

  “…and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God,” Rev. Charles went on. His benign look had tightened into uncertainty, and beads of sweat began to form on his forehead.

  “We both know this is no kind of marriage,” Jason muttered, glowering at Lady E.

  “It’s the only kind that counts,” Lady E said. “A legal one. And don’t you pretend you aren’t enamored of the status being married to me will convey. I’m the daughter of an earl. I am high society.”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” Jason whispered.

  “Thirdly,” Rev. Charles, who had battled on during the argument, continued with a raised voice, “it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.”

  “This was a terrible idea,” Jason said, his jaw tight.

  “You’re not backing out of it,” Lady E warned him. “If you so much as think—”

  “Stop!”

  The shout that came from the back of the church was loud enough to wake the dead and had just as much pain as panic in it. Everyone turned, but from the front of the church Marshall had a stellar view as Flossie stumbled into the church, clutching her stomach. She was flushed and sweating, and in an instant Marshall knew she was in labor. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

  Behind her, two of the footmen from Huntingdon Hall flanked an old, wicker wheelchair containing Lord Gerald. Flossie wasn’t the only one who had shouted for them to stop. In a much quieter voice, Lord Gerald gasped, “Stop. Stop. This wedding cannot proceed.”

  The footmen wheeled Lord Gerald up the aisle, Flossie on their heels, wincing and groaning in pain. The congregation chattered and gasped and whispered, sounding like a breeze blowing over a meadow of dried grass.

  “Papa,” Lady E exclaimed. She glared at Jason as though the interruption were his fault, then dropped his arm and pushed her voluminous skirts aside so that she could turn and march to her father. Lord Gerald was already at the front of the church by the time she managed it. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?” she demanded of him.

  Marshall wanted to know the same thing. So did practically everyone else in the church. Everyone except Jason, that was. Jason leapt away from the chancel and rushed to Flossie, sweeping her into his arms.

  “Somebody bring a chair,” he called out as he lifted her in time to her groan.

  Ted Folley thought fast enough to bring one of the extra chairs that had been set up for the wedding to the front of the aisle, and Jason settled Flossie in it as the swallowed a moan of pain.

  All of that happened within seconds as
Lady E continued with, “Papa, you had better have a very good reason for interrupting my wedding.” Her fists were clenched.

  “You cannot marry Jason Throckmorton,” Lord Gerald insisted. The man was clearly agitated.

  Marshall rushed to his side, lifting his wrist to check his pulse. “He should be taken to the hospital,” he said. “He’s upset himself, and he may have done bodily damage.”

  But Lord Gerald wheezed, “No, no. I have to stop the wedding. This wedding cannot take place.”

  “Stop it, Papa,” Lady E insisted. “You’re ruining everything. I’m going to cry. Do you want me to cry on my wedding day?”

  “You cannot marry Jason Throckmorton,” Lord Gerald continued, his eyes glassy and his pulse fast and thin. “You cannot.”

  “Why, Papa, why?” Lady E demanded. The sound of her boot hitting the stone floor under her gown echoed loudly.

  “Because….” Lord Gerald gasped. “Because….”

  “Why, Papa?” Lady E shouted.

  “Because he is my son.”

  Marshall had never heard silence ripple out through a crowd as fast as the silence that followed Lord Gerald’s revelation. Lady E’s eyes went wide. Marshall’s jaw dropped, utter shock overcoming him. The people sitting close enough to hear Lord Gerald’s revelation gaped as well. Slowly, they turned to the people sitting behind them, whispering what had just been said. The whispers spread until the silence was overtaken by the surprised hiss of gossip spreading.

  “No, Papa,” Lady E wailed. “You are mistaken. I am your only child.”

  Lord Gerald shook his head, sinking back into his chair. “You are not, my dear,” he said, breathless and quickly losing energy. “Before you were born, before I married your mother, there was another. My parents did not approve. Our son was whisked off, barely a fortnight after he was born. The only choice I had in the matter was my insistence that he be placed at the Brynthwaite Municipal Orphanage so that I could see him grow into a man. I gave him his name—Jason, after the mighty warrior of Greek mythology, and Throckmorton, after his mother’s people.”

  Marshall glanced from the exhausted old man to Jason, who knelt by Flossie’s side, holding her hand and murmuring to her, “There, there. I’m here now. Just breathe. It won’t be long.” Marshall wasn’t entirely certain Jason had even heard the revelation.

  At least he didn’t until Lady E shrieked, “Jason Throckmorton is my brother?”

  Jason turned to her and Lord Gerald and frowned—as though he’d been interrupted in the middle of something important—and said, “I’m what?”

  “You’re my son,” Lord Gerald said. “My dear, dear boy.”

  Jason shot to his feet. “Good Lord,” he gasped. “Is this true?”

  “It is,” Lord Gerald said. “There are records to prove it, of course, but—”

  “You’re my sister?” Jason demanded of Lady E.

  “You are,” Lady E wailed, bursting into bitter tears. Her crying rivaled Flossie’s strangled shout as another contraction hit.

  Marshall sent a disapproving look Lady E’s way, pushed his way past her, and rushed to Flossie. “How fast are the contractions coming?”

  “Too fast,” Flossie groaned.

  “Do you think you’re having the baby right now?” Marshall asked on.

  Flossie merely nodded, bursting into tears.

  “Right.” Marshall took charge. “We need boiled water and some sort of cushion for her to lie on. Someone run to the hospital and fetch disinfectant and proper towels.”

  He didn’t look around to make sure someone had followed his orders. He pulled off his jacket and rolled off his sleeves as the two footmen from Huntingdon Hall moved forward to help Flossie to the floor.

  “Wait,” Jason cried once they managed to raise her to her feet.

  “There is no waiting, man,” Marshall shouted at him. “This baby is likely coming now.”

  Jason ignored him, stepping to Flossie’s side and slipping an arm around her waist to support her. “Rev. Charles, continue with the ceremony. Skip to the vows.”

  “I…I beg your pardon?” Rev. Charles asked, jaw flapping in shock.

  Jason glanced to Flossie. “I’m marrying the woman I love, and I’m doing it before our child is born. I won’t let my child come into the world a bastard, like I was.”

  A baffled, joyful, panicked smile lit Flossie’s face as she gazed up at Jason, panting and sweating.

  “If that’s all right with you,” Jason said to her.

  Flossie nodded, then groaned, nearly doubling over in pain. “Hurry, hurry!” she gasped.

  “Dearly beloved,” Rev. Charles began.

  “Skip to the vows!” Jason bellowed.

  “Oh, right, uh.” Rev. Charles gulped. “Jason Throckmorton, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will,” Jason snapped. “Hurry, man!”

  “Um, er, ah. Florence Stowe, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will,” Flossie gasped. “Oh, oh, oh!”

  “Get her to the floor,” Marshall ordered.

  Jason shifted and one of the footmen stepped forward to help lift Flossie and lay her on her back on a pile of suit jackets offered by male wedding guests as Rev. Charles rushed on at breakneck speed with, “Forasmuch as Jason Throckmorton and Florence Stowe have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands. I pronounce that they be man and wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” He gasped and caught his breath before adding, “But I’m not sure of the legalities of the whole thing, since the banns weren’t read and—”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Flossie,” Marshall said, ignoring Rev. Charles and kneeling between Flossie’s legs.

  He lifted her skirts and positioned her legs to the side. As he’d suspected, they’d waited almost too long. The top of the baby’s head was already plainly visible. Jason cradled Flossie as best he could, holding her hands. Marshall didn’t have to tell either of them what to do. Flossie started pushing immediately, and within seconds, with a rush of fluid and blood that made one woman sitting in the pew directly beside the whole scene squeal squeamishly, the baby rushed out into Marshall’s waiting hands.

  “Towels, clamp, scissors,” he barked as he cleared as much as he could away from the baby’s mouth and nose. He didn’t have to lift the wee thing or go to any effort. The baby took his first breath and let out a loud, furious cry. “It’s a boy,” Marshall told Jason and Flossie.

  Both of them burst into tears. Marshall did his best to clean up their son while waiting for the proper supplies to be brought to him. He managed to place the baby on Flossie’s stomach with the cord still attached as he attended to the afterbirth.

  Behind them, Lord Gerald cried out, “Emily. My dear Emily. Don’t leave me. I love you, I love you dearly. Don’t die.”

  A chill passed down Marshall’s back. A shadowy, untold story seemed to breathe its last as Lord Gerald dissolved into inconsolable weeping. The mystery of Jason’s origins seemed to be solved and the tragedy played out at last. But as whoever had run to the hospital returned with the instruments Marshall needed, allowing him to cut and bind the new baby’s cord so that he could be bundled up and passed fully into the arms of his blubbering, adoring parents, a whole new story felt as though it were beginning.

  Alexandra

  She was d
efinitely in labor. She had been since before dawn. But Alex would be damned if she missed the wedding. Not for her cousin’s sake. Elizabeth could sit on a tack, as far as she was concerned. Not for Jason’s sake either. Jason had been fool enough to become embroiled with Elizabeth, so he was getting what he deserved. She was determined to be there for Flossie, for the friend who had stuck by her side through the worst of the winter, the friend she was certain would need her now.

  But as she left the hospital and attempted to make her way down the strangely quiet streets of Brynthwaite to the church, she regretted her decision. She had to stop outside of The Fox and the Lion pub, leaning against its wall for a moment as a wave of pain overtook her.

  “Not yet,” she panted, as if she could will her baby to stay put. “Not quite yet.”

  She recovered enough to walk on, crossing the street and moving gingerly in front of the town hall. But it was there that something else startled her, something that had nothing to do with the intensifying feelings of labor and the panic creeping up on her. As she paused to lean against the low, stone wall in front of the town hall, she spotted none other than Lawrence rushing toward the jail side of the building.

  She opened her mouth to call out for him—either to ask what he was doing or to beg for his help—but quickly snapped her mouth shut. Lawrence leapt at the building, grabbing hold of something and pulling himself up. For a moment, he disappeared from view. A second later, he hopped down from the side of the building, gesturing for something or someone. A moment after that, Barsali Moss’s head and torso popped into view. Alex would have recognized the Romani man’s brightly-colored clothes anywhere.

  All at once, she remembered Marshall telling her Barsali had been arrested the evening before. She remembered Marshall’s upset at Lawrence’s plan to leave Brynthwaite to run away with Barsali’s band. She put two and two together and decided Lawrence must have been breaking his friend out of jail. Lawrence was mad. It was the middle of the day. Anyone could have seen them. Anyone could have—