by Merry Farmer
It was only when Alexandra stepped quietly up to his side that he pulled himself out of the stiff posture of grief to meet her eyes. She said nothing, only smiled. There was sympathy in that smile, but understanding too. He smoothed his hand over Martha’s hair and did his best to return that one smile.
“Mrs. Creswell said I should come tell you to send Martha to her,” Alexandra said. “To keep her out of your way.”
Martha heard the comment and whined, burying her face in her father’s side.
“Clara’s sister always was a bit of a sergeant-major,” he said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. “Thinks she can order everyone else about.”
Alexandra paused. “I take it your answer is no, then?”
He shook his head. Eileen had been kind to come up from London for her sister’s funeral—the lone representative of Clara’s family—but she saw that act as one of martyrdom. She was so much like her sister in that regard that the dull sting of misery threatened to choke Marshall again.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” Alexandra went on.
Marshall shook his head a second time. There wasn’t a single bloody thing that anyone could do for him, and yet that was the only thing that anyone asked him anymore.
“I should head back to the hospital then,” Alexandra said. “Lord only knows what’s become of the place with Mrs. Garforth in charge. She has probably set any patient without stitches or splints to scrubbing the floors.”
“Perhaps we should look into that in the future,” he said, knowing he was joking, but feeling it as though the joke were a thousand miles away. “It would cut expenses.”
“Don’t you worry about expenses for now,” Alexandra said. “Mother has issued a reprieve while you are in mourning. Both I and the hospital donations are safe for now.”
“For now,” he echoed.
“You need only worry about resting and getting your sea legs back.” She ended her speech with a smile, reaching out to squeeze his arm.
That one small touch warmed him. He nodded to Alexandra. She returned the gesture, bent to kiss Martha’s head, even though the child didn’t look up at her, then turned to go. Martha sniffed and wiped her nose against the fabric of his pocket, then hugged his leg tighter.
“Poor motherless thing,” he murmured.
He would have picked her up and held her, but another pair of well-wishers, elderly sisters, approached him.
“We’re so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
If things kept going like this, he would be able to skate through the rest of his life without ever having to think about things again. It would certainly make human interactions that much easier.
“Marshall, what do you think you’re doing?” The snap in Eileen’s voice was as sharp as the one in Clara’s, but at a deeper timbre. “You have guests to entertain. You shouldn’t be standing here, sheltering a selfish, weeping child.”
He glanced up to meet Eileen with a sudden spike of rage. “She’s upset. She doesn’t understand any of this,” he defended his youngest.
Eileen clucked and shook her head. “Honestly. Men know nothing about children. You overindulge Clara’s girls.”
“I would remind you, Eileen, that they’re my girls too,” Marshall told her, trying desperately to keep his voice down for Martha’s sake.
“And we’ve always known you would ruin them,” Eileen fired back. There wasn’t a shred of sympathy in her pinched face. Why would there be? That entire family blamed him for ruining Clara. “Martha!” Eileen barked.
Marshall felt his daughter gulp and tense. He stroked her head and rested his hand on her shoulder, but it didn’t do her any good.
“Come here at once, child.” Eileen grabbed hold of Martha’s hand and tugged her away from Marshall’s side.
Martha cried out, and even though Marshall’s heart broke, he said, “It’s all right, my sweet. Go with your auntie Eileen.”
Eileen sniffed. “It’s Aunt Eileen. I won’t stand for any of these provincial nomenclatures.”
“I don’t want to go,” Martha squeaked.
“Really,” Eileen huffed.
“She’ll take you to get a glass of punch,” Marshall coaxed, then met Eileen’s eyes and said, “You will take her to get a glass of punch.”
Eileen sighed. “Well, if you wish.”
Marshall watched them walk across the churchyard, feeling as though his heart was being pulled away from him. He was supposed to be grateful that Eileen had come to help. She had reminded him of that every second of every day of the last week since Clara had died. It was his duty to be prostrate with gratitude even more than with grief.
“When is she going home?”
Lawrence’s question made Marshall realize he’d been glaring daggers at Eileen’s back for more than a minute. He hadn’t even heard his friend approach.
“She won’t say,” he told Lawrence with more vinegar to his tone than he intended. “She claims she’ll stay as long as she’s needed.”
“By which score she should have left yesterday?” Lawrence suggested.
Marshall replied with a knowing look. He glanced on to Matty, who stood, silent and unobtrusive, slightly behind Lawrence. Her bruises were healing well, and she looked a damned sight better, not to mention several years older, wearing a proper dress, even if it was second-hand.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Matty said. When she said them, the words held all of the genuine feeling they were supposed to.
Marshall softened his expression and nodded to her. “Thank you. Are you getting along well at the forge?” It was about time he thought about someone else’s problems.
Matty answered with a nod and a shy smile.
“She’s been extraordinarily helpful,” Lawrence said. “Memory or no, it turns out she’s a fantastic cook.”
“Oh?” Marshall could see that his friend was more than pleased with that prospect. Then again, Lawrence was the easiest person to please that he knew. He glanced back to Matty. “So no progress on remembering things.”
“No.” Matty shook her head, but she didn’t seem as distressed by the prospect as he would have been in her place. All the more reason to think that whatever she had to remember was best left forgotten.
“Papa.” Mary stepped up to his side, the tray of cakes she had been passing nearly empty. She offered it to Matty and Lawrence as she spoke. “Aunt Eileen needs to go.”
“I know, my pet,” he said, squeezing her shoulder, the bubble of rage, buffered by grief, in his chest expanding.
“She has Martha in tears over at the refreshment table,” Mary went on. “Martha dropped a glass of juice and Aunt Eileen is shouting at her, saying that she’s a disgrace. And when Molly tried to help clean her up, she raised a hand to her.”
The urge to kill welled up in Marshall so fast that he lost his breath. “Did she hit Molly?”
“No,” Mary rushed to say when she saw the rage in his eyes. “She only raised her hand. Then she put it down again.”
“Does Molly need help?” Matty asked.
Mary turned to her, studying Matty with all the seriousness of a grown woman.
“Mary, dear, this is Matty. She’s staying with Mr. Smith for a time,” Marshall introduced them. “Matty, this is my eldest, Mary.”
“How do you do?” Mary nodded with perfect politeness.
“Well, thank you,” Matty answered. “Can I help you?”
Mary hesitated. She glanced to Marshall. Marshall nodded, and Mary echoed the nod for Matty. The two of them started off toward the refreshment table together.
“Eileen has got to go,” Marshall said when Lawrence swung around to stand next to him, arms crossed.
“The sooner the better,” he agreed. “Perhaps the girls could spend some time at the forge, now that I’ve got Matty there to keep an eye on them. The fresh air will do them a world of good,” he thought aloud.
Marshall was sure he should have had some sort of instant
opinion on the suggestion, but he didn’t. “Perhaps. Let me work on giving Eileen the boot first.”
“Dr. Pycroft.” They were interrupted by the approach of Mayor Crimpley and his wife, both looking supremely elegant in their mourning dress. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Already, Marshall’s attention began to drift. Eileen would have to be told to leave firmly, but with enough delicacy not to shut the door to London forever. She was family to his girls, after all, and his girls had a right to know the only family they had.
“Clara was such a dear woman,” Mrs. Crimpley was saying. “Such a tragedy.”
Marshall nodded. It was what Mayor Crimpley said that sparked his interest, though.
“Smith, what’s this I hear about you pestering Constable Kirke about missing person reports for the county?” the mayor asked.
Lawrence stiffened at Marshall’s side. “Just that,” he said. “I’ve been inquiring as to who in the county has been reported missing.”
“Why?” Mayor Crimpley narrowed his eyes.
Lawrence met him stare for stare. The years of enmity between the two of them went back to well before Marshall had returned to town. It went back to childhood, if his suspicions were correct. Unlucky for Lawrence, he couldn’t answer that it was none of Crimpley’s business, because, as mayor, to an extent it was.
“I am attempting to discover if someone is missing.” Lawrence gave the vaguest answer he could.
“It’s that young woman you’ve been seen about town with, isn’t it?” Crimpley pressed on. “The straggler.”
“Her name is Matty,” Lawrence growled.
Marshall’s brow twitched up. At this rate, they would have another death on their hands.
Guilt over joking at a time like this squeezed the air out of his lungs.
“All inquiries about legal business should be directed through the proper channels, Smith,” the mayor said.
“And so they will be, Crimpley.” Lawrence crossed his arms.
“What’s going on here?”
Jason strode in to join their tense group. He was easily the tallest of their band of friends, and dressed in jet black, his coat buttoned tight as usual, his top-hat gleaming in the sun, adding inches to his height. He looked a bit like an undertaker.
“Mr. Throckmorton,” Mrs. Crimpley broke the deadly tension between Lawrence and the mayor. “How good to see you again. I heard all about the delightful tea you hosted for Lady Elizabeth and Lady Charlotte last week.”
“Mrs. Crimpley,” Jason said, taking Mrs. Crimpley’s outstretched hand like the fishing bait it was and bowing over it.
“I so wish I could have been there,” she went on. “It would have been such a delight to be one of the chosen few admitted into the inner sanctum before the grand opening next week.”
In other words, Marshall thought to himself with a smirk, Jason should have invited her.
“If I had only know, I would have issued you an invitation, Mrs. Crimpley,” Jason replied with all the grace of a diplomat. “I would invite you in the coming week, but, alas, the gardens are all now freshly installed, and there is a great deal of settling that needs to be done before they no longer cause mud to be tracked everywhere.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Crimpley blinked rapidly, as though that was no excuse at all.
“Yes. I would hate for you to sully your beautiful and stylish gowns.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Crimpley replied, suddenly knowing. “How very kind of you, Mr. Throckmorton. How very thoughtful. I shall eagerly await the grand opening ball, then.”
“What’s this about the grand opening ball?”
This time it was Lady Elizabeth, her lady’s maid in tow as usual, and Lady Charlotte who interrupted and enlarged their party. No wonder Jason had gravitated in this direction. He tensed and turned a shade of red that Marshall could only describe as panic puce. Lawrence shot him an amused glance to tell him he’d noticed too. It was fine with Marshall. He could damn well do with some entertainment, and Jason’s fawning over Lady Elizabeth was the most comical show in town.
“Lady Elizabeth.” Jason reached out for the lady’s hand, his own shaking slightly. When Lady E. didn’t take it right away, he snapped his hand back as though he’d been burned, and clasped his hands behind his back. “It is good to see you looking so well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Throckmorton,” Lady E. replied with a smile, moving her hand up too late to shake his. She blinked, then lowered it. Jason flushed even darker. “We are so looking forward to your hotel opening,” she said as if nothing had gone awry.
“We shall be attending too, Lady Elizabeth,” Mrs. Crimpley told her with the gleam in her eyes that can only be found when one woman is trying to impress another of a higher rank. She may have been the mayor’s wife, but in her younger years, Maude Crimpley had been a schoolteacher.
“We shall all have a grand time, I know it,” Lady E. said. She spared a brief smile for Jason—which Jason lapped up like a starving dog—then turned to Marshall, her face falling to the appropriate expression of sympathy. “I am so sorry for your loss, Dr. Pycroft.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“And I am determined to have that wretched intersection investigated,” she went on, twice as energetic. She turned to Mayor Crimpley. “Our town’s roads have been a disgrace for too long, Mayor Crimpley. Has anything been done to check the speed of the vehicles that go charging through the High and Lake Streets crossing?”
“Well…I…my lady,” Mayor Crimpley fumbled. He turned his own shade of Jason’s panicked color. “I do not know.”
“I should like to open a formal investigation as soon as possible, then,” Lady E. went on. “It is the least we can do to comfort poor Dr. Pycroft and those who have suffered similar accidents at the intersection. For as I understand, Mayor Crimpley, this is not the first time we have had an incident like this.”
“Quite right,” Jason added, looking like a fool trying to elbow into the conversation.
“My lady, I would be open to any and all suggestions you might have,” Crimpley said, looking anything but. “Perhaps we could discuss this over tea some afternoon?”
“Yes,” Lady E. said with a bright smile. “This afternoon. There is tea right over there, in the shade. Shall we walk?”
She held out her arm to the mayor, and Crimpley was forced to take it. He paused before being led off to say to Lawrence, “I will talk to you later.”
“Dr. Pycroft,” Lady Charlotte hung back as her niece walked on. “You have my deepest condolences.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Considering the way he’d spoken to her last time they met, those condolences were not a guarantee. She nodded to him, unsmiling and full of threat, before walking away.
“What bee flew up her bonnet?” Lawrence asked.
Marshall snorted. “Apparently, I’m a bad influence on her daughter, and I have conspired to wrench her away from the life she should be living.”
“Lady Charlotte is a harridan,” Jason growled. Now that Lady E. had turned her back on him, he shifted from one foot to the other like a caged tiger ready to gnaw off a limb.
Marshall twisted to stare fully at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Everything,” Jason growled. He rolled his shoulders and shook out his hands, flushed as if he had a fever.
Marshall frowned at him. “Is that so?”
Jason glanced to him, and in an instant his friend’s face lit with embarrassment. “Marshall, I’m so sorry. My problems mean nothing on a day like this. You know I’m just a colossal idiot.”
“Yes, I do,” Marshall replied, feeling far more grateful to his friend than he needed Jason to know.
“I will do a better job of ignoring my pain and being here to support you,” Jason said.
“Pain?” Lawrence frowned.
“Don’t listen to him,” Marshall warned. “He’s fishing for sympathy is all.”
“I’m not—” Jason started, anger
replacing his embarrassment. He took a breath and let that drop. “I’m not going to get into that discussion with you today.”
“Good.”
“Dr. Pycroft,” another crop of well-wishers approached. “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Marshall said for the hundredth time.
“Mrs. Pycroft was such a dear soul.”
“Yes, she was,” he answered because he had to. A sudden wave of nausea overtook him. The truth was bitter enough to turn his stomach.
Suddenly, the well-meaning banter of his friends, the self-serving sympathy of those who had come to pay their respects, even the depressing sight of his daughters and Matty doing their best to hold their own against Aunt Eileen was too much for him to face. If they knew the truth, they would all recoil from him in horror.
“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me.” He nodded to his friends and turned to leave them to themselves.
“Marshall,” they each nodded and said their goodbyes, letting him go.
“What kind of pain are you in?” Marshall heard Lawrence ask Jason as the two headed off on their own path.
Marshall shook his head. Real or imaginary, pain was only as powerful as you believed it was. His own pain reached so deep that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to dig it out. He wanted to be alone, away from everyone who would curse his name if they found out what he really thought, about them, about life, about this town. About Clara.
His steps took him to the freshly piled dirt of Clara’s grave. There was nothing there but churned earth to mark her final resting place. After all that, the years of silly courtship, the shock of discovering married life—after the joy of bringing children into this world and the agony of losing two before they were born, all there was left of Clara now was a mound of dirt. It made him sick to think about, sick down to his soul.
Because he had never been so relieved in his life.
Flossie
The walk up the hill from Brynthwaite Post Office was arduous, but none of that mattered to Flossie. After she’d deposited her first wage packet from the hotel into a postal account and wired as much of it home as she dared, she’d been handed the ultimate reward, a letter from home. That made every step of her journey lighter.
