by Merry Farmer
As soon as they were gone, Alex put on her most gentle bedside manner and went to the table to examine Matty. As she helped Matty remove her odd clothes, she was enraged to find so many bruises. Some were older than others, nearly healed. Whatever had happened to this woman, it hadn’t been a single occurrence.
“You remember nothing at all?” Alex asked, helping Matty to lie down so that she could check what she had been specifically called to check.
“I remember tiny things,” Matty sighed, her voice small. “Flashes. That’s all.”
“I see.”
Battered though she was, Matty wasn’t timid. She let Alex perform all of the female examinations she needed to without complaint. When she was done, Alex helped her to dress again.
“Surely the hospital must have a depository of clothing that would be more appropriate for you to wear besides these things,” she said as Matty sat up and shrugged into the man’s shirt.
“My things were soaked through in the storm,” Matty explained. “I don’t mind these, but I am cold here. The forge is warm.” Her voice drifted off.
Alex frowned in thought and went to the door to invite the men back in.
“Her hymen is intact, and there is no bruising of an intimate nature,” she spoke quietly to Marshall. “She has not been tampered with that way.”
“Just beaten to within an inch of her life,” Lawrence said, overhearing them. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, and Alex found herself hoping she was never on this man’s bad side.
“The bruises will heal,” Marshall went on with a sigh, “as will the cuts. You did a fine job of bandaging her feet before.”
“Mother Grace taught me well.”
Lawrence grinned at Marshall, clearly teasing him over something. Marshall rolled his eyes. Alex caught herself smiling, as if years had dropped away and the two friends were young men having a go at each other. Not only did that finish her change of opinion about Lawrence, it bolstered her opinion of Marshall as well. In fact, she believed the smile he had for his friend was the first smile she’d ever seen from him.
“Is there a home for wanderers in Brynthwaite?” she asked. “Or perhaps could the hospital keep Miss Matty here until she is well and her memory has returned?”
“No,” Matty gasped. Alex and both men turned to her, only to find that the poor woman’s eyes had gone round with fear. “No, I want to stay at the forge.”
Alex’s brow shot up. Lawrence and Marshall exchanged looks.
“I’ve no objection to extending hospitality to her for as long as she’d like,” Lawrence told Marshall.
“Are you certain?”
Lawrence shrugged and nodded. “Why not? She was helpful this morning, sweeping the workroom even though her feet were badly injured.”
“He carried me here on his back,” Matty was quick to tell Marshall and Alex. “He won’t hurt me.”
There was a pause before Marshall said, “You’re right there. Lawrence is the most gentle soul I know.” He sent his friend a serious look, as though making sure he knew what he was getting into.
“Do we at least have a used clothing supply?” Alex asked. “It would be a pity to let poor Matty continue to wear nothing but a shirt. She said she was cold.”
“Yes, of course,” Marshall said. “We are given clothing donations sometimes. There’s a bag of them in the storeroom.”
“Which one?” Lawrence asked.
“The one that used to be the library, such that it was,” Marshall answered, almost as if he and Lawrence were speaking their own language.
“I’ll fetch something,” Lawrence said, then nodded and left at a fast stride.
“Do you need me for anything else?” Alex asked.
Marshall shook his head. “Probably a hundred thousand things, Dr. Dyson. Your help is invaluable.”
He met her eyes, and that smile that she’d only just seen for the first time was directed at her. She rather liked it. His eyes narrowed to jolly lines when he smiled. It was a shame he didn’t have cause to smile more often. That observation brought back the memory of his wife causing a fuss that morning. Poor Dr. Pycroft.
“I’ll just go back to treating patients, then,” Alex said.
She spared a last smile for Matty, then turned and strode out of the room, ready to dive back into work with full energy.
Flossie
A crash coming from the lobby was not the sort of sound anyone at the hotel wanted to hear.
“What in the bloody hell was that?” Mr. Throckmorton’s voice boomed a second later.
From her position at the top of a ladder near the window, Flossie could see straight into the lobby. She watched as Mr. Throckmorton stormed out of his office, around the desk, and into the muddy lobby.
“Oh lord,” Dora, the fellow maid who Flossie had become quick friends with the day before as she moved into her room on the staff hall, muttered.
“It was just a flower pot, Mr. Throckmorton, just a flower pot,” a distraught bellboy rushed to defend himself.
“There is mud all over the marble,” Mr. Throckmorton raged on. His face was a spotty red and somehow his long coat seemed to be buttoned up to the point of suffocating.
“J-just mud,” the bellboy said, quivering.
“Then clean it up,” Mr. Throckmorton shouted. Unable to stand still, he marched on into the dining room where Flossie and Dora worked.
“Don’t look at him,” Dora squeaked. “He’s a dragon today. You’re like to have your head snapped off.”
Flossie didn’t doubt Dora was right, but pity rather than fear filled her chest. She watched Mr. Throckmorton from atop the ladder as he stormed through the room, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. The man looked as though steam was about to come out of his ears. His neck was nearly purple now. He paced to a table full of parcels, raising a hand to touch one, reading the label. His hand shook.
Flossie blew out a breath. He really was upset, but over mud on the marble?
“What is this?” he demanded, jerking his head up from reading the package and scanning the half dozen hotel employees at work in the room. “What are you doing?”
None of them met his eyes, let alone answered.
“They’re the curtains for the dining room,” Flossie called down from the ladder. “They’ve just arrived, and we’re about to hang them.”
Mr. Throckmorton’s fiery gaze took a moment to find her as the one who had spoken. As soon as he did, their eyes met. Flossie caught her breath. So much frustration, so much desperation. All she could do was smile, as if that would make it all right.
Mr. Throckmorton froze. Not only that, Flossie was fairly certain he held his breath. Then, slowly, his shoulders lowered.
“Lady Elizabeth will be here in half an hour’s time, and the curtains have only just arrived?” he hissed as if fighting Lucifer himself to keep from shouting and tearing the whole place down.
Again, no one answered and Flossie had to take charge.
“In the nick of time,” she said and bobbed a half-curtsy. It was awkward on the ladder, but she had good balance and pulled it off.
“Well?” Mr. Throckmorton growled when no one else moved. “Let’s see!”
Flossie nodded and looked away from him. She gestured to Dora to hand her the curtain rod that she had just finished sliding the thick, burgundy velvet curtains on. Flossie had to come down a rung on the ladder to receive it. She peeked over at Mr. Throckmorton, only to find him taking a quick swig of something out of a blue bottle that had been in his pocket.
Before she could stop herself, she arched an eyebrow at him. The last thing they needed was an employer who hit the bottle when he was under duress. To her surprise, as soon as Mr. Throckmorton caught her expression, he turned an even deeper red, and if Flossie wasn’t mistaken, looked ashamed of himself.
She didn’t have time to give that a second thought. The curtains were heavier than she expected them to be. All of her attention went into adj
usting her grip, then climbing back up the ladder to hang the rod on the hooks that she had just finished fastening to the wall above the window.
Dora’s gasp should have been her first clue that something was desperately wrong.
“What in God’s name is that?” Mr. Throckmorton boomed a moment later, louder and more frantic than when he had shouted at the bellboy.
Flossie set the rod in place, then looked down. Instantly, she saw the problem. The curtains were two feet too short for the window.
“They look like some bloody schoolboy’s bloody knickers have grown two sizes too short for him,” Mr. Throckmorton bellowed.
He was right. Flossie’s heart pounded as she scurried down the ladder and backpedaled toward Mr. Throckmorton to assess the situation. The window looked ridiculous.
“They’ve sent the wrong curtains,” she sighed, raising a hand to the frilled white cap she wore over her hair.
“Of course they bloody well sent the wrong curtains!” Mr. Throckmorton raged. His voice was loud enough to shatter the windowpane, and desperate fury rippled off him like heat off an inferno. “Oh God.” He gripped both side of his head, gasping for breath. “Lady Elizabeth will be here any moment now. I’ll look like a fool who can’t even hang curtains.”
Dora and the other hotel employees scattered around the dining room shrank back as though a volcano were about to blow. Flossie searched the room, looking for an answer.
“Half an hour,” she said, turning to Mr. Throckmorton as her mind worked. “You said we have half an hour.”
“So?” he yelled, turning to her, eyes wide, a vein throbbing in his temple. “It might as well be half a second at this rate!”
A smooth calm descended over Flossie. Falling apart never solved anything. Her mind continued to turn as she studied the situation.
“This is a bloody catastrophe,” Mr. Throckmorton shouted, though to whom, Flossie had no idea.
She ignored him regardless, and when her eyes scanned across one of the tables at the far end of the room, stacked with freshly ironed tablecloths, she grabbed hold of an idea.
“Tablecloths,” she said, confidence filling her. She stepped away from Mr. Throckmorton and gestured to Dora. “Those tablecloths were ordered for the banquet tables. They’re longer than the windows are tall. How many do we have?”
“Um…ah…I….” Dora stumbled, scurrying after her.
“Twelve,” the young man standing beside the tablecloths said. “We’ve got twelve here.”
Flossie glanced up, calculations flying through her mind. “And six windows. Perfect. Dora, cut small holes in the end of the cloths and slide them onto the rods. We’ll use them as curtains.”
“But they’re the wrong color,” Dora protested. “We’ll ruin them.”
“It doesn’t matter what color they are as long as they match the rest of the room,” Flossie said, grabbing one tablecloth for herself. “And we’ll cut the holes small enough that we’ll be able to mend them later. We can use the same cords to tie them once they’re hung that we were planning to use for the true curtains. No one will know the difference.”
She turned and marched back to the window where she had been working. Mr. Throckmorton stood stock still, watching her with wide eyes. She gave him a quick smile and a nod. If he was going to explode at her, he had better either do it quickly or wait. There was work to be done.
She climbed back onto her ladder until she was able to hold the tablecloth up against the curtain rod that was already in place. The cloth was just a bit too long, but too long was far better than too short. With a satisfied nod, she came down again, unhooking the rod that was already in place and bringing it with her.
“Take this, Dora.” She handed off the tablecloth and the curtain rod when she reached the floor. “Fold up any of the curtains that have already been unpacked. We’ll have to get to the bottom of that later.”
“I believe I have a bill for them in my office,” Mr. Throckmorton said, his voice immeasurably calmer than it had been minutes ago. “I shall telegraph to complain at once.”
Flossie nodded to him. “Yes, sir.” To Dora she said, “I’ll go in search of some scissors.”
Without hesitating, she stepped around the pile of curtains on the floor and marched into the lobby. Mr. Throckmorton followed behind her.
“And what is all this?” He was back to shouting once more as the two of them crossed into the lobby.
The bellhop, who Mr. Throckmorton had shouted at before, now had a bucket and mop and was cleaning up the mess of the shattered flower pot. “You told me to clean it up, sir,” the boy said, cowering.
“Not like that. You’re only creating more mud,” Mr. Throckmorton scolded him. At least his former fire had been quenched somewhat. As Flossie skirted around the desk, searching for scissors, he said, “Lady Elizabeth will be here at any moment, and I have a swamp for a lobby.”
“I’ll mop it up, sir, I promise,” the terrified bellhop said.
Flossie only had one moment to spare a sympathetic glance for the lad. He happened to look up at her as she did, young eyes full of question. Flossie mimed mopping, then gestured to the entire lobby. The boy nodded and set to work.
Mr. Throckmorton darted a glance between the two of them, then strode across the lobby and around the desk into his office. His coat brushed Flossie’s arm as he went.
There wasn’t a pair of scissors to be found on the desk, so Flossie turned and stepped into the doorway of the office.
“Excuse me, sir.” She dipped a quick curtsy to Mr. Throckmorton, who had made it to the far end of the room and was rummaging on a side table, searching for something amongst a pile of loose papers with a pencil in his hand.
“Yes?” he snapped.
“Might I check on your desk for a pair of scissors?”
He whipped to face her and swept her with a sharp look. The edges of that look softened as he took her in. His color rose, and he snapped back to the table. “Yes, fine.”
Flossie wasn’t going to ask questions about what that look was for. She stole over to the desk and began sifting through the mass of confusion atop it. Mr. Throckmorton may have been a hotel magnate with half a dozen establishments across England, but he was wretchedly disorganized. All of the samples of cloth and wallpaper and even suggested menus put together by the hotel’s cook were jumbled together with newspaper pages and even a pair of gloves. She would have to do more than a little prying to find what she needed.
As it happened, her eyes scanned across something she needed without knowing it just as she found the scissors.
“Sir,” she said, picking up the packing slip that had caught her eye. It was from the company that had provided the curtains.
“Yes?” Mr. Throckmorton barked without facing her.
“Sir, look at this. I believe this is a packing slip for the curtains, and it says quite clearly that they should be twelve feet long and five feet wide.”
Mr. Throckmorton twisted from something he was writing and scowled. “What?”
He took three steps over to the desk and stood beside Flossie, staring at the paper over her shoulder. She could feel the heat radiating from him. Maybe he was a dragon.
“Those bastards,” he said, regardless of whatever sensibilities she might have, standing right there next to him. He snatched the slip from her. “They sent the wrong curtains, damn them.”
“So it should be an easy piece of work to send the ones we have back and to request the correct ones be sent right away,” she said with a smile, then added, “In time for the opening.”
“Yes,” he answered, still looking at the list.
Flossie would have stayed and waited for more, but the tablecloths were waiting. She tucked the scissors into her apron pocket, bobbed a quick curtsy that Mr. Throckmorton didn’t see, then turned and rushed out of the room.
The bellboy had gone straight to work as soon as Flossie had given him what amounted to instructions. He had the whole front h
alf of the marble floor spread with sudsy water and was hard at work, scrubbing at the worst of the muddy spots. It would take a little more work, but with enough time, she was certain he would have the floor sparkling again. As it was, Flossie slipped only a little bit as she hurried back into the dining room.
“Here.” She handed the scissors off to Dora. “But be very careful or we’ll have to order new ones once we’re—”
“What the devil have you done now?” Mr. Throckmorton’s voice thundered from the lobby. “This is a mess!”
Flossie sighed and left Dora to rush back to the lobby. No doubt Mr. Throckmorton was about to decapitate the bellboy, but it had been her suggestion to mop the entire floor. She walked into the scene just as Mr. Throckmorton was crossing from his office.
“We don’t have time for this,” he bellowed.
“Sir, it’s my fault,” Flossie began.
“With all the mud that’s been tracked in today, we’ll—”
His words were cut off as he reached the edge of the area the bellboy had already swabbed only to slip. His feet went out from under him just as Flossie reached his side to apologize. With a sharp yelp, her arms shot out and she grabbed Mr. Throckmorton from the side. His weight shoved against her, and were it not for the fact that her feet were firmly planted on a patch of dry floor, they both would have gone down in a tangle of arms and legs.
As it was, Mr. Throckmorton merely sagged into her. Flossie kept her grip firm around his waist. He was a well-built man at that, muscular and fit under the coat that hid most of his body. She could feel his heart hammering against her shoulder where he was draped over her. For a moment, neither of them moved. The rich scent of shaving soap and freshly laundered linen, along with a faint herbal tang lingered around him.
A moment later and the spell was broken. Shaken, Mr. Throckmorton righted himself and brushed his coat. He met Flossie’s eyes for less than half a second before looking away that same oddly ashamed look in his eyes.
Another second and that look was gone, replaced by panic. “What in God’s name are we going to do about this?” he shouted. “The lobby’s as slick as an icy pond. Lady Elizabeth can’t walk across this, she’ll break her neck. And the mud!”
