The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part One

by Merry Farmer

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, looking to Lawrence for help.

  “We’ve been to the hospital. Marshall and his new woman doctor examined her. Aside from the obvious, they can’t find anything wrong with her,” Lawrence explained.

  “I’ve always been given to understand that head trauma is the cause of memory loss,” Jason said.

  “It isn’t that.” Lawrence shook his head. “Until we find out what it is, Matty will be staying with me at the forge.”

  Jason fought his first instinct to ask if that would slow down the desperately-needed work. Instead he asked, “Have there been any reports of missing persons in the county? If you arrived on foot, surely you can’t have come from far away.”

  “Missing persons reports,” Lawrence said, bobbing his head as though he hadn’t thought of that. “I should check with the constable as soon as possible.”

  Matty drew in a quick breath, fear in her eyes. Fear in her eyes, now that the possibility of checking with law enforcement had been mentioned. Jason couldn’t help but meet that with suspicion.

  “You are in good hands with my friend Lawrence here,” he said to Matty all the same, then glanced to Lawrence. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  In truth, it was a question that asked Lawrence if he did know what he was doing. The answering grin that his friend gave him was a solid yes. Well, he would leave it up to Lawrence, and if there was trouble, he would help where he could.

  “I’m glad that the work here is coming along,” he said, thumping Lawrence on the arm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to a certain Patty’s Pastries and thank them for a service well done with copious amounts of cash.”

  Lawrence gave him a curious look, but said no more. Heaven only knew how he would have explained if there had been questions. If worst came to worse, he could call Flossie out to answer. She would handle it more deftly than he ever could.

  Marshall

  It was a rare day when things actually went well at the hospital, but there they were, swimming right along.

  “What do we have here, Dr. Dyson?” he asked, pausing in the doorway of one of the examination rooms on his way to the waiting room to fetch another patient. The joy of addressing someone as “doctor” in his hospital after so long on his own was far deeper than any he had experienced in years.

  “Another case of bronchitis, Dr. Pycroft,” Alexandra answered him, sounding as pleased as he was. “It seems as if the disease has reached the level of epidemic to the north.”

  “I’m afraid it has,” he said, far too happy for his words.

  “I’ve prescribed rest and liquids and cherry syrup for the cough, but we really need to order some more potent medicines as soon as possible,” she said.

  There was such excitement in her eyes, such a sense of purpose. Marshall hadn’t seen anyone so thrilled to practice medicine since his own days as an intern in London. It was a blessed balm to have a cheerful soul so nearby. Fate, it seemed, had finally decided to be kind to him. He felt as though he’d turned a corner.

  “We’ll go through the next order together,” he said. “Once all of the patients have been seen and the night staff have arrived. Then I can show you—”

  “You can’t stop me,” a female voice called from the end of the hall, near the waiting room.

  For a moment, Marshall’s heart plummeted into his stomach at the thought that Clara was back to torment him again. But this was another voice, and this time it was Alexandra who blanched.

  “Oh no,” she said, stepping away from the examination table and heading for the door.

  “Aunt Charlotte, please,” a second female voice pleaded.

  Marshall stepped into the hall right behind Alexandra, only to find Lady Elizabeth and her aunt, Lady Charlotte, at the end of the hall. Mrs. Garforth was trying her best to fend them off while still showing deference.

  “Mother,” Alexandra breathed beside him.

  The pieces clicked into place. Dr. Alexandra Dyson was a lady, not just a woman.

  “Alexandra,” Lady Charlotte exclaimed, pulling herself to her full height in outrage. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  All at once, the joy that had kept Marshall through the afternoon fizzled. Fate wasn’t being kind to him, it was simply playing another, cruel joke.

  “Mother, I am a grown woman. You have no right to control my life as though I was still in the nursery,” Alexandra answered her, matching her mother’s posture and stepping toward her. “I’ve taken a job as a doctor here at the hospital.”

  “I can see that,” Lady Charlotte sneered, glancing down at the stained apron Alexandra wore. “I am disgusted by it.”

  Alexandra’s jaw flexed and she planted her hands on her hips. “I do not care whether you are disgusted or delighted, mother. This is my life and my choice.”

  Just as they had when Clara had been there haranguing him, patients began to peek around the doorways of the examination rooms and waiting room, and a few curious faces appeared around the bend in the stairs. It seemed the hospital was as good as a theater these days.

  “I blame you.” Lady Charlotte surprised Marshall by turning her wrath on him.

  “Me, my lady?” he balked.

  “Yes, you,” she repeated. “My wayward daughter’s conniving accomplice.”

  Lady or not, Marshall was not about to take the insult lying down. “With all due respect, my lady, the hospital has been in need of another qualified doctor for quite some time.”

  “Then find one, sir,” Lady Charlotte snapped.

  “I have, ma’am,” Marshall answered, his temper flaring.

  Lady Charlotte snorted. “My daughter is no qualified doctor. She is a spoiled girl whose father allowed her delusions of a life that will never suit her.”

  “Mother, that is not true,” Alex growled. “Father supported my medical education. I have been practicing for years. Why do you suddenly object now?”

  “I never complained about your quaint country practice,” Lady Charlotte said.

  “Yes you did,” Alexandra interrupted.

  “But to have my daughter, a gentleman’s daughter, demeaning herself by touching the sick and decrepit out where everyone can see her—”

  “Dr. Dyson has proved herself to be a more than capable doctor so far, ma’am,” Marshall defended her, defended his own choice to hire her.

  “Perhaps, Dr. Pycroft,” Lady Charlotte said, squeezing her eyes shut as fury overtook her, “a better solution to your problems would be a financial one.”

  “I’m sorry?” he asked, dreading where the conversation was headed.

  Lady Charlotte opened her eyes and stared daggers at him. “If you dismiss my daughter, I can assure you that I and several of my very generous friends will provide you with ample donations to fund your endeavors here.”

  The breath rushed out of Marshall’s lungs. Money. It was as sorely needed as medical help.

  “Mother,” Alexandra hissed. She must have sensed where her mother was headed.

  “If you do not choose to dismiss my daughter,” Lady Charlotte went on, “then you may soon find that it will become quite difficult to obtain donations for your hospital from any of the great families of Cumbria.”

  There it was, the twist of the knife. The money that those families gave was little enough in the first place, but it was essential. To cut it off would mean desperation.

  “Mother, I have heard enough of these threats,” Alexandra railed. “Is that all you are? Bully who uses money as a weapon?”

  “Hold your tongue, Alexandra,” Lady Charlotte snapped.

  “I will not,” Alexandra replied. “I have held my tongue long enough. I will do as my conscience dictates.”

  “Then you and your friend here will face the consequences,” Lady Charlotte finished. “Come along, Elizabeth. We are done here.”

  With that, Lady Charlotte spun on her heel and marched down the hall and into the waiting room. The patients and hospital sta
ff both leaned out of her way and went scattering, like ants in a storm. Lady Elizabeth sent Alexandra a pinched, sympathetic look, mouthing the words “I’m sorry,” before turning and following her aunt out of the hallway.

  Marshall stood where he was, watching the dying scene, shaking. Whether it was with rage or with fear had yet to be determined.

  “I am so sorry, Dr. Pycroft,” Alexandra told him with a shaky sigh as soon as they heard the front door slam. “My mother is unforgivable.”

  “It seems we all have our family drama,” Marshall said. It should have been a joke, but every word of it came out far too seriously. He let out a breath, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “We need the money.”

  “I will leave if you want me to,” Alexandra said, stepping closer to her, “but I have no wish to leave. I have no wish to cave to my mother’s demands.”

  “I understand,” Marshall began, “but—”

  “You give her what-for, lady doctor,” one of the patients, old Horace, hollered from the stairs.

  Marshal clenched his jaw. He had no wish to hash this out in public. “Come into my office, Dr. Dyson,” he said and turned to march down the hall.

  Simon was standing behind them, a broom and dust pan in his hands. “Um, I’ve just started cleaning the office, Dr. Pycroft, sir.”

  Marshall huffed. “All right then, let us find somewhere else to speak in private, Dr. Dyson.”

  He did the only thing he could think of on short notice with his temper so out of joint. He switched directions and marched down the hall toward the waiting room, gesturing for Alexandra to follow him. Once again, the patients who were watching parted, letting them through. Marshall kept marching, Alexandra keeping close behind him, until they had stormed out through the front door and into the late afternoon sunshine.

  The busy thoroughfare at the intersection of the High Street and Lake Street was a surprisingly good place to hold a private conversation. All around, people were walking and shopping, rushing on their way to specific destinations or popping by the pub for a drink. No one cared to stop and interrupt or eavesdrop on a conversation held in lowered voices between two doctors standing close together.

  “The hospital cannot afford to lose the few benefactors that is has, Dr. Dyson,” Marshall laid the situation out. “We barely squeak by as it is.”

  “I understand, Dr. Pycroft.” Alexandra nodded, arms crossed, face grim. She lowered her head.

  “But neither can we afford to lose a physician.”

  Alexandra glanced up, her eyes filling with hope. Just as quickly, it crumpled. “I want to work here, more than anything.”

  “I can see that.” Marshall nodded. “It’s one of the things that recommends you the most.”

  “I feel as though I’m needed here,” she went on.

  “And so you are,” he agreed. On more than one level.

  Her face pinched with indecision. “I can’t be the cause of ruin for this hospital, as much as I long to be a part of it.”

  “You would only be a source of ruin if your mother intends to follow through on her threats. Do you think she does?” he asked.

  Alexandra sighed and dropped her arms. “I can only imagine that she does. Mother is difficult. I wouldn’t put it past her to do anything.”

  She finished speaking, then glanced up and across the street. Her expression grew wary, and when Marshall followed her gaze, he saw why. Lady Charlotte and Lady Elizabeth and her maid had just come out of a confectioner’s shop across the street. Lady Charlotte noticed her daughter across the busy intersection, and her expression hardened. Lady Elizabeth leaned toward her to say something, but they were too far away to be overheard, and a carriage sped through the intersection, blocking them from sight for a moment.

  “Mother will never let me rest until she’s found a way to torment me to death,” Alexandra said.

  Marshall laughed before he could stop himself. “Perhaps your mother and my wife are related somehow.”

  Alexandra shared a wary and knowing look with him. Almost as if they were friends.

  “Perhaps we could come to some other arrangement that would suit my mother and the hospital both,” she said, though she didn’t sound convincing. “Some way I could split my time between—”

  “Marshall!”

  Clara’s shrill cry echoed across the intersection. Another carriage galloped up from the road that led to the train station, and she stepped to the side. Little Martha followed behind her, clutching Clara’s hand, but Mary and Molly were nowhere to be seen.

  “Marshall Pycroft, you will explain the meaning of this,” Clara shouted from the other side of the street.

  He suspected that she stood where she was for dramatic effect. The whole intersection, including Lady Charlotte, Lady Elizabeth, and her maid, could hear whatever she had to say.

  “Oh Lord,” Marshall sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another, blasted woman.”

  “Your daughters are staging a mutiny,” Clara continued to shout. “They have insisted—” her words were cut off as another wagon loaded with goods rumbled through the intersection and around the corner. As soon as it was gone, she tried again. “They have insisted that they shall make dresses for themselves with the fabric you insist on buying for me instead of a fine dress.”

  “I shall buy them fabric for their own dresses,” Marshall replied, though where he would find the money, he had no idea. “Come over here and we’ll discuss it.”

  “What’s wrong?” Clara shouted back. “Are you afraid of your neighbors knowing how much of skinflint you’ve become? Are you afraid of Mr. Throckmorton, your good friend, finding out?”

  She gestured, and Marshall turned to see Jason stepping out of the gate to his hotel. He sent his friend a weary smile in greeting. Jason frowned and shrugged, asking what was going on.

  “Clara, enough of this. You’re embarrassing me, and yourself,” Marshall called across to his wife.

  “Oh, I’m embarrassing you?” Clara barked. She let go of Martha’s hand and threw her arms skywards.

  It happened so fast that Marshall barely had time to react. As soon as Martha was free, she tore into the street, crossing the intersection to run toward him. At the same time, a carriage-and-four came careening down the hill. Clara noticed a split second later.

  “Martha!” she screamed and tore into the street after her.

  The horses didn’t see her. The driver of the carriage shouted, but it was too late. Before Marshall could open his mouth and draw in breath to shout “No!” the carriage crashed into the intersection. Martha jumped forward, flying out of the carriage’s path by a thread. Clara wasn’t as lucky. The lead two horses smashed into her with a force that silenced Clara’s cry in an instant. All Marshall could see was a blur of legs and hooves, skirts and limbs as the first pair and then the second pair of horses trampled her. The driver shouted and lost hold of the reins as the carriage itself bumped and barreled right over Clara’s prone form, then thundered on, out of control.

  Another second that seemed like a lifetime passed, and the dust cleared, Clara lay in the road, her arms spread at impossible angles. Lady Elizabeth screamed, as did several other ladies who had observed the whole, horrible thing.

  “No!” Marshall shouted again. He lunged forward, mind numb with the horror of what he’d just witnessed. He flew out into the street without regard for anyone or anything else, then fell to his knees at Clara’s side. Her body was crushed and bloodied.

  “Don’t move her,” Alexandra shouted at his side a moment later, steady and professional. “Keep her as still as possible. Check for a pulse.”

  She searched frantically over Clara’s body for some place to start. Her fingers worked the buttons at Clara’s collar, as if that would help to give her air.

  “Somebody block the road,” a man shouted, possibly Jason.

  A child screamed, Martha, but Marshall heard it as though it was at the end of a tunnel. He crouched wh
ere he was, frozen, eyes wide as he studied Clara’s twisted face.

  “Multiple fractures, probably internal bleeding, and I don’t like the look of that laceration,” Alexandra rattled off the list of what she saw, but there was a strained, desperate tone to her voice. “We have to,” she started, but stopped to pant. “We have to….”

  She didn’t go on. She must have known what Marshall had known from the first instant. There was no hope. Clara was dead.

  Episode Three - A Difficult Decision

  Marshall

  Sunshine on a sad day was the bitterest of ironies. The churchyard was awash in cheerful afternoon light. The choicest of blooms stood out on bushes and in neatly-kept flower beds. Clouds rolled lazily through the heavens and birds chattered merrily. It was the most jolly setting for a funeral that Marshall could possibly imagine.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” another in the long line of mourners came up to comfort him as she stood near the church door.

  “Thank you.” Marshall gave them the requisite nod and accepted the hand of the gentleman of the pair, but he wasn’t quite sure of who they were or why they, of all people, were wishing him well. He didn’t deserve to be wished well.

  “You must be so worried for your girls,” another well-wisher spoke to him in soft, condescending tones. “Poor things, left without a mother.”

  “We’ll manage,” Marshall said, or thought he said. He didn’t care enough to pay attention.

  He rested a hand on Martha’s head. She’d been clinging to his leg since the service had ended. Mary and Molly were making the rounds through the crowd of those who had come to express their condolences. He thought he’d seen Mary with a tray of something, offering refreshments. Something about the sight would have pushed him to rage, if he’d had any emotion left in him. They had all been wrung out, every last one of them.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Another empty face. Another round of uselessness.