The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part One

by Merry Farmer

  She tore into the envelope addressed to “Miss Florence Stowe, The Dragon’s Head Hotel, Brynthwaite” with a giddy laugh. She hadn’t heard from her dear sister Betsy in weeks, and it had been pure luck that the letter had been given to her when she’d sent Betsy money rather than with the bulk delivery of mail to the hotel. She couldn’t wait to hear what her sister had to say about home.

  “Dear Flossie,” she read, heart beating in her throat. She slowed her steps and kept to the side of the path leading up the hill so that she could read and walk at the same time. “You can’t imagine the sorrow and heartbreak that had befallen us here at home after you have gone away.”

  Flossie’s smile dropped. She swallowed and read on.

  “Your visit here before traveling to Cumbria was far too short. We may have seemed happy, but dear Mother and Father were hiding the truth from you. And that truth is that we are so poor we can barely keep a roof over our heads.”

  “Oh no,” Flossie gasped, slowing her steps even more. Things had seemed so happy in the week she’d spent at home between Crestmont Grange and Brynthwaite. Her papa had hugged her and danced with her to his own, off-key singing every few minutes. Her mother had smiled and told everyone how proud she was of her grown-up girl. Her nieces and nephews had laughed and played with her as they’d picked berries in the garden. They had all looked so well. How could she have missed the truth?

  She read on. “Father is working as best he can, but they’ve cut his wages at the factory. Mother’s too. And you know me, with so many mouths to feed after Edward’s death, It’s more than I can do to keep the little ones in warm clothes. I don’t know what I shall do when the summer is through and it comes time to send them off to school again. I may have to send Ian to work in the factory along with Father.”

  “No, you can’t,” Flossie gasped. Her nephew was too young, only seven, and he was such a bright lad. She knew if he kept up with his school work he could make something of himself, they all did.

  “Oh Flossie,” the letter went on. “I’ve let this letter sit for a few days, and more sadness has befallen us. It seems that the little ones and the baby have fallen ill with the croup.”

  Flossie gasped. She had to pause in her reading to cross the street and continue on along toward the walled churchyard.

  “I managed to scrape together enough for medicines, so you needn’t fear on that account, but now our money is so badly depleted I don’t know what we shall do. Please, Flossie, please. If you can, send more. You’ve been so good and so kind to send us what you have already, but more is needed. Much more. I don’t know what I shall do if we don’t have enough money to pay the butcher, and Ian needs new boots. Please send all that you can. Your loving sister, Betsy.”

  Heart pounding, Flossie read the letter again. Her throat closed up and tears stung at the back of her eyes. Her family. Her own dear family. They were in trouble. They needed her, and she was miles away.

  But she needed to be miles away. She needed to work and to send money home. If only she dared to go back to the post office and ask them to send more from her account, but she’d already sent all that she could.

  “Oh no,” she sighed. She lowered the letter, dropping her arms to her sides and glancing around at the busy Brynthwaite street, as if the answer would be hanging from the boughs of the trees in the churchyard.

  “Flossie?”

  Relief poured through her at Polly’s call. She turned to find her friend walking down the street toward her, dressed in black.

  “Polly. What are you doing here?” She tried to smile, even though she wanted to cry.

  “I could ask you the same question,” Polly said. “You look so sad.”

  “I’ve just had a letter from home,” she explained. “Betsy says that the little ones are sick and father’s had his wages cut at the factory. She says they are in trouble and don’t know what to do. I need to send them more money, but I only have so much.”

  Polly rushed the last of the distance to her, hugged Flossie, then hooked her arm through hers. “I’m sure there’s a solution,” she said.

  She searched along the churchyard wall, then tugged Flossie with her in through the church gate and to a lonely corner of the yard. The funeral for Mrs. Pycroft was still in progress. Flossie noticed Mr. Throckmorton standing with Dr. Pycroft and their friend, Mr. Smith, as well as the mayor and Lady Elizabeth. She wasn’t able to catch Mr. Throckmorton’s attention, though, and at the moment she didn’t think she wanted to. Polly took her through the yard to a small maze of hedges with benches for people who wanted to sit and contemplate without being disturbed.

  “What exactly does the letter say?” Polly asked, sitting tight beside her on the bench.

  “Just that Papa’s wages were cut and the children are sick, and that things aren’t as they appeared when I was home,” Flossie explained. “How could they hide the truth from me? I need to do something for them, Polly, but what?”

  “Hmm.” Polly pressed her lips together, hugging Flossie’s arm. “When you told me you wanted to get away from Crestmont Grange, you said it wasn’t because of money.”

  A flush of shame spilled through Flossie. “It wasn’t,” she said slowly.

  “Could you go back there?”

  “No, never,” Flossie answered quickly.

  Polly hummed. “Is Mr. Throckmorton paying you a good wage to work at the hotel?”

  “He is,” Flossie said.

  “Then you will just have to ask him to increase that wage,” Polly concluded.

  Flossie sighed, her shoulders sagging. “He’s already increased it from what he had planned to pay me originally. After the tea for Lady Elizabeth, he has given me more responsibility.”

  “Well! That’s something,” Polly said, perking up. “Has he made you Head Maid or some such?”

  “No.” Flossie shook her head. “We’ve all got the same titles, as far as I know.”

  Polly balked. “Mr. Throckmorton has heaped more responsibilities on your shoulders, but he hasn’t given you a grand title?”

  Flossie laughed in spite of herself. “I don’t need a grand title. He’s increased my wages.”

  “By a lot?” Polly asked.

  Flossie bit her lip. “I thought so, but it doesn’t look like it will be enough now. I need to think of something more. I have to help my family.”

  The two of them sat together in silence, contemplating the whole thing.

  “What about sewing?” Polly said at length.

  “Sewing?” Flossie tilted her head to the side to think about it. She was a fair hand with a needle.

  “You could take in sewing in your free time. Or darning. Or even washing,” Polly said.

  Flossie shook her head over the idea with a sigh. “I’m not sure I’ll have enough free time left to take it in. Hotel business keeps me busy from sun-up to sun-down.”

  “Then you shall just have to ask Mr. Throckmorton for another raise,” Polly declared. “And if he says no, you must threaten to quit.”

  “Quit?”

  “Yes. If he’s grown so dependent on you as to pile on the work, then he would be threatened enough to cave into whatever demands you have.” She leaned closer and added, “I did that with Lady E. once.”

  “Polly! You didn’t.”

  Polly grinned. “I did. We were having a row. Nothing serious,” she rushed to clarify, “but enough that I put my foot down. And Lady E. gave in.”

  “Polly Penrose, you have nerves of steel,” Flossie said. “But I wouldn’t dare try that with Mr. Throckmorton.”

  She truly wouldn’t. She liked her job at the hotel far too much to put it in any kind of jeopardy. She liked the extra responsibility. It made her feel important, valued, as if she could tackle anything. In truth, working at the hotel was the most stimulating jobs she’d ever had. And if she was being honest, she liked Mr. Throckmorton too much to abandon him. He was a dragon, but one she knew she could tame. He was a riddle and a force of nature all
at once, and she admired him, though nearly everyone else on his staff cowered in fear when he walked past. Even so, she wouldn’t make threats to get what she wanted from him.

  “Polly?” Lady E. called from somewhere in the churchyard, outside of the hedge mazes. “What happened to that girl? Polly?”

  “I’ve got to go,” Polly said, popping up from the bench and zipping to the corner. “I still think you should threaten to quit,” she said before disappearing.

  Flossie shook her head and smiled over her friend. She sighed and sat back, grateful for the seclusion of the thick hedges. She missed the days of long walks and childish pranks that she and Polly had enjoyed as girls. A large part of her missed being a girl. Childhood seemed so long ago, and the world had taught her so many cruel things since.

  She knit her brow and looked at Betsy’s letter without opening it. The problem was that she’d been here before. When she’d left to go to Crestmont Grange, her family had fallen into hard times. Then, like now, Betsy had sent her letters and telegrams, worrying over her fate and that of the children. Her husband, Edward, had been sick, but he’d kept on working, all to no avail. Flossie had sent everything she could to Betsy, but when Edward died, it hadn’t been enough. In a panic and at the end of her rope, she’d earned the money that Betsy needed in the only way she could. That’s when things had begun to unravel.

  “But I don’t understand any of it,” a man said, drawing near.

  Flossie stayed where she was, well-hidden by the thickness of the hedges. She sank against the back of the bench, figuring if she was silent, whoever it was would pass her by.

  “There’s nothing to understand. It’s madness,” a second voice said.

  Flossie caught her breath. Mr. Throckmorton.

  “Come on, man. I’m only trying to help you, but I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.” The first voice again, Mr. Smith, Mr. Throckmorton’s friend.

  “I…I can’t,” Mr. Throckmorton answered.

  Holding perfectly still, Flossie prayed that they would keep walking. They didn’t. She heard Mr. Throckmorton let out a long, shaking breath. He shuffled his feet, but neither man walked on from where they had stopped on the other side of the hedge, mere feet away from her.

  “Jason,” Mr. Smith said. “Please. Talk to me. You can’t even stand still. Something is obviously wrong.”

  “Leave me alone,” Mr. Throckmorton answered in a voice that begged for anything but to be left alone.

  Flossie turned her head slowly to the side. She could see him through a small gap in the hedge, or at least part of him. He was dressed all in black with his coat buttoned up tight, as usual. He’d taken his hat off, and now spun it by the brim, as restless as a magpie.

  “I’ve left you alone long enough,” Mr. Smith went on. “I can’t stand to see you so…agitated. You’re my friend. You’ve been my friend as far back as my first memories and before.”

  Mr. Throckmorton huffed a laugh. “Marshall isn’t even this concerned about me, and he’s a doctor.”

  “So it’s a medical condition?” Mr. Smith asked.

  Flossie could only see part of Mr. Throckmorton’s face, but it was enough to see a deep flush paint his cheeks and neck.

  “It…it does have a name, yes,” Mr. Throckmorton answered.

  “So you are ill,” Mr. Smith said, full of alarm. Flossie held her breath, concern flooding her.

  “I can’t talk about this anymore, Lawrence.” Mr. Throckmorton tried to step away, but Mr. Smith held him to his place.

  “That’s it,” he said. “I’m tired of Marshall dismissing your illness and I’m tired of you refusing to tell me what it is. I want to help you, Jason. I can’t stand to see you in so much pain. Pain,” he repeated the word, putting emphasis on it. “You just said back there that you are in pain. You know that pain goes against everything that I believe.”

  Mr. Throckmorton laughed. “Spoken like a true hedonist.”

  “I’m a hedonist because that is the way that makes sense to me,” Mr. Smith went on. “Pain is my devil.”

  “And pleasure is your god, I know,” Mr. Throckmorton seethed. “Well, your god is my devil.”

  There was a brief pause before Mr. Smith said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  A longer pause followed. Flossie could only see part of him, but she could feel Mr. Throckmorton pulsing with tension. She could feel the torment in him as if he was a furnace radiating heat. Her throat closed up with emotion, the same as it had when she read Betsy’s letter. And just the same, she felt there had to be something she could do.

  “Satyriasis,” Mr. Throckmorton said at length, frustration and defeat in his voice. “It’s called satyriasis. Are you happy now?”

  Flossie heard Mr. Smith move, heard the shift of fabric as he crossed his arms.

  “No,” he said. “What is that?”

  “It means….” Mr. Throckmorton paused and let out a breath in total defeat. In a voice no more than a whisper, he went on to say, “I have an inability to control my sexual impulses.”

  Flossie frowned, still holding her breath, confused.

  “I don’t understand,” Mr. Smith said, echoing what she felt.

  “I can’t control myself,” Mr. Throckmorton repeated. “Not when it comes to women.”

  He stepped to the side enough for Flossie to have a clear view of Mr. Smith, who shrugged.

  “You’ve always enjoyed sex,” he said, looking perplexed. “So have I.”

  “It’s beyond that,” Mr. Throckmorton said through clenched teeth. “It’s all I can think about. It’s like a craving that nothing will satisfy.”

  “So.” Mr. Smith made a face that was half amused, half confused. “Find yourself a woman and satisfy it.”

  “Did you not just hear me say that nothing will satisfy me?” Mr. Throckmorton hissed, rippling with tension once more. “Nothing!”

  “All right, all right,” Mr. Smith said, raising his hands in surrender.

  “I said you wouldn’t understand,” Mr. Throckmorton went on, shifting and pacing, unable to keep still. “This is why I tell no one. I’m only ever met with jeers and lewd suggestions. Even Marshall laughs at me and tells me, as my doctor, his recommended course of treatment is that I regularly visit brothels.”

  “Well there aren’t any brothels in Brynthwaite,” Mr. Smith said. “I would know.”

  “That’s not the point. They make it worse,” Mr. Throckmorton snapped. “And you have no idea how bad it can be.”

  “Then tell me,” Mr. Smith appealed to him.

  Mr. Throckmorton swayed in front of the gap once more, and all Flossie could see was his coat and the bottom of his chin through the hedge.

  “Constant distraction,” he said, jaw tight. “Constant arousal. From the moment I get up in the morning until the moment I go to bed. Do you have any idea how painful that is?”

  “I’m beginning to see, yes,” Mr. Smith answered slowly. “And there’s nothing you can do to…to take care of that yourself?”

  “Temporary solution,” Mr. Throckmorton answered. “And I can’t very well absent myself from business and company every hour or two only to return, red-faced and sweating, without explanation.”

  “And is this a continuous state?” Mr. Smith asked.

  Mr. Throckmorton raised his free hand, presumably to rake through his hair, clenching his hat in the other. “Not continuous, no,” he admitted at last. “But frequent enough that even the threat, the very thought that at any moment my body could and will betray me, makes every moment a study in dread.”

  “Your coat,” Mr. Smith said, letting out a breath as though something made sense.

  “It is my armor and my shield,” Mr. Throckmorton answered.

  A second behind, Flossie understood as well. Mr. Throckmorton’s coat was always buttoned up, always on, even in the hottest of weather, covering him from his neck to his knees. No one could see his body and its reactions behind that coat. She thought ba
ck to the hundred times in the last week that she had found herself working in close quarters with him, asking him questions or receiving directions. Any one of those times he could have been standing in front of her with the evidence of his troubles plain for all the world to see, but for the protection of a layer of fabric.

  “You know,” Mr. Smith began again, “and don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m quite certain there are men out there who wouldn’t see this as a problem at all. In fact, they’d be chuffed by it.”

  “But I am not,” Mr. Throckmorton barked. “I am not. I have no wish to be a…a man who cannot control his own body…a smug Lothario…a monster.” He bit out the last word with so much fervor that Flossie had to swallow to keep herself from weeping for him.

  “Oh, Jason,” Mr. Smith said with a sigh that said he understood at last. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were in this kind of torment.”

  “No one does.”

  “You’ve consulted with doctors?”

  “In London,” Mr. Throckmorton said. “Several. They’re the ones who told me what it was.”

  “Sata—”

  “Satyriasis.”

  “And what did they tell you to do about it?”

  “To enjoy myself,” Mr. Throckmorton answered bitterly, through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry, friend.” Mr. Smith stepped forward and clapped his friend’s arm.

  “I have done my best to develop the willpower I need to battle this,” Mr. Throckmorton went on. “In London, for a time, things became so bad that—” He stopped and shook his head, raising a hand as if he was beating off memories. “I have forced myself to keep no female company outside of an appropriate setting. I have reminded myself that my heart belongs to Lady Elizabeth. She is the focus of all of my efforts. For her, I will master this. For her, I will not be a monster.”

  “Jason, you’re not a monster,” Mr. Smith said. “But Lady Elizabeth is not worth—”

  “Don’t say it,” Mr. Throckmorton hissed. “Don’t you dare say it.”

  “All right.” Mr. Smith held up his hands again.