The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part One

by Farmer, Merry

  “It will be all right,” Lawrence said, kissing her forehead.

  He seemed to notice they were alone at last as well. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he shifted the way he held her and slanted his mouth over hers. It felt so blissful to be kissed as though she were an object of desire instead of a pitiful creature in need of comfort that she kissed him in return, digging her fingertips into the flesh of his back. He responded by stroking her side and cradling her breast. The desire his touch raised in her was enough to drive her mad. Her mind began to race for ways the two of them could find just a few minutes to enjoy each other. She’d gladly drop to the grass and let him ravish her then and there if only—

  Lawrence stopped abruptly. A moment later, Matty saw why. Elsie had emerged from the flat and silently approached them as they’d talked. She grabbed Lawrence’s leg as he kissed Matty, and at the moment, she didn’t look as though she had any intention of letting go.

  “She’s quite taken with you,” Matty sighed, ashamed at the jealousy she felt.

  Lawrence sent her an apologetic smile. “You were the same way when you first showed up at my forge, if I remember correctly.”

  “Not exactly the same,” Matty said, one eyebrow raised. She had arrived at the forge damaged and without any memory, just as Elsie was damaged and without her voice now. But Matty had been a grown woman when Lawrence had taken her in, and she’d responded to him as a grown woman would. She only wished she were free to continue to respond to him that way.

  “I need to clean up if I’m going to take Willy and Connie into town,” Lawrence said, picking Elsie up with a tired smile. “Crimpley would likely set the constable on me if I showed up looking like this.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Matty said, giving him one final kiss before he turned to go. She only hoped that the things they did pushed things in a better direction than the one they were heading in now.

  Lawrence

  He should be working. Lawrence’s hands itched to hold a hammer and pliers. He needed to feel the heat of the forge blasting him and helping him form metal into objects of beauty and use. He had a whole list of orders—from hinges to grates to decorative fences—that he needed to see to before his customers grew impatient and took their jobs to another blacksmith. Instead, he walked along the road into Brynthwaite, Elsie clinging to him tight enough to choke him, Connie moping along behind with her arms crossed, and Willy marching ahead, where Lawrence could keep an eye on him, his hands in his own pockets to keep them out of others’.

  “School is a wonderful place to be,” he told them yet another variation of the same message he’d been spewing since they left the forge. “You’ll make friends there. Friends that you’ll have for life.”

  “I don’t need any friends,” Connie muttered behind him.

  “Sure, you do.” It was getting harder and harder for Lawrence to keep his spirits up. How had he ended up in this mess? How was he supposed to get his own work done with the responsibilities of children to look after? “Mr. Palmer is a good man and a good teacher. He’s there to help you.”

  “He is handsome,” Connie admitted.

  The hair on the back of Lawrence’s neck stood up. “And there are plenty of girls your age for you to make friends with,” he said. “Sarah Folley is nice. She’s about your age. I’m friends with her father.”

  “I suppose,” Connie sighed.

  Lawrence clenched his jaw. What sort of young girl didn’t look forward to making friends in school?

  The sort who had seen far darker things than any of the other children could imagine, he answered himself. He said a quick prayer to the Goddess, asking for guidance and understanding. If worst came to worst, perhaps he could send Connie off to stay with Mother Grace for a while.

  “Here we are,” Lawrence said as they reached the school. He’d made the gate that separated the schoolyard from the street and was pleased when it swung open without more than a small squeak.

  The school building was an attractive, stone affair. It had been rebuilt only two years before, when the number of children attending school had made the older, smaller building intolerable. Some of the windows were decorated with colored tissue paper in the form of stained glass, which was a testament to Mr. Palmer’s modern teaching methods. Lawrence detested the cold, disciplined way he, Jason, and Marshall had been educated at the orphanage, but Palmer had embraced new methods. Methods Lawrence wished they’d had when he was growing up.

  He carried those positive feelings with him into the schoolhouse, but they were squelched within moments of him and the children being noticed.

  “Class, open your readers to page forty-three,” Mr. Palmer said with a frown. “Older children, please help the younger ones to read the lesson there.” He left his position at the front of the classroom before he was finished speaking and marched down the center aisle to where Lawrence and the children stood. “What are they doing here?” Palmer snapped.

  “Good morning to you as well,” Lawrence greeted him, his disappointment coming out as a growl.

  Palmer shook himself, his shoulders relaxing. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. Good morning.” He stared at Lawrence with a look that told him to get on with his business then leave.

  Lawrence second-guessed everything he’d been about to say. Perhaps Brynthwaite School wasn’t the most hospitable place for Matty’s siblings. But he owed it to them and to Matty to at least try to help them find a place.

  “I understand there was some sort of a problem the last time Willy and Connie came to school here,” he began, glancing from Palmer to Willy, then Connie. Both children wore looks of astounding innocence. So much so that the hair stood up on the back of Lawrence’s neck. They were a little too skilled at deception.

  Palmer seemed to know it as well. He nodded toward the cloakroom, ushering Lawrence and the children away from where the other children might overhear. “I understand the situation you’re in, Mr. Smith,” he began. “But young William here is not a suitable candidate for school.”

  “I am so,” Willy argued with a ferocious pout. It was a damn sight different than the fuss he’d kicked up back at the forge.

  Palmer studied him with a troubled look. He rubbed the back of his neck and winced before glancing to Lawrence and saying, “I wish there was something I could do, Mr. Smith, truly. But in the two weeks that William attended my school, he caused three fights, numerous classroom interruptions, and was found in possession of dozens of items belonging to the other children.”

  “Did not,” Willy said with a hint of desperation. “He’s a liar. He stole them things.”

  Lawrence clenched his jaw, praying for patience. He glanced up at the ceiling until he felt he could go on with, “What about Connie?”

  Palmer tilted his head to the side in consideration. “Constance was very little trouble. I did notice she was having trouble making friends with the other girls her age, and that her academics were poor, but I believe those are problems that would resolve themselves in time.”

  “So you’d be willing to take Connie back, but not Willy?” Lawrence asked.

  Palmer writhed on his spot, a guilty look in his eyes. “Yes, Constance is welcome back. But, I’m sorry, William belongs in a reformatory, not a school.”

  Lawrence couldn’t disagree with the man. It was a rotten situation any way it was sliced. He turned to Connie. “You heard Mr. Palmer. You’re welcome back to his school.”

  “No.” Connie shook her head, taking a step back. “If Willy can’t come, I won’t go.”

  Irritation like nothing Lawrence had ever known gnawed at him. He fought to remind himself that Connie was only a child, that children didn’t know better, even when the situation in front of them was what was best for them. But anger overtook everything else, souring his stomach. This wasn’t the life he’d built for himself. These weren’t the battles he’d chosen to fight. He would have been happier with chains around his ankles, locked up in Crimpley’s dankest pr
ison cell.

  As soon as the thought struck him, he let out a breath and shook his head. He was the adult. The situation was his responsibility.

  “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go to Morningside Landing from here and I’ll turn you over to Lord Waltham’s cook. You’ll be a scullery maid.”

  “I said I don’t want to be a scullery maid.” Connie’s eyes went round with panic.

  “That sounds like an ideal situation to me,” Palmer said, clearly relieved.

  Connie noticed the schoolmaster’s reaction and shifted as fast as lightning. “I’ll go to school,” she grumbled, staring defiantly at Palmer. “But I won’t like it.”

  Palmer pursed his lips as though he’d gotten the thin end of the wedge. “All right. Take your place with the other girls your age.”

  With her nose in the air and an attitude that made Lawrence sorry he’d handed the problem over to Palmer, Connie marched through the schoolroom door and slid into one of the rows of desks on the girls’ side of the room.

  “I’ll make sure she comes every day,” Lawrence told Palmer as he turned to go. “And I’m sorry for the trouble.”

  “I’ll manage,” Palmer said, his voice laced with wariness.

  Palmer returned to his class and Lawrence left the school, Willy slumping along beside him, hands back in his pockets. Elsie hadn’t lifted her face from his shoulder through the whole encounter. She was like a lead weight in his arms.

  They reached the end of the schoolyard, and Lawrence paused by the gate. He pivoted to glance up at the schoolhouse, his feelings for the place not half as friendly as they’d been just moments before. From there, he lowered his gaze to Willy. The boy stared up at him with questions in his eyes, questions Lawrence had no idea how to answer.

  “Come on,” he said, opening the gate and pushing on.

  He shifted Elsie to his other side as they reached the street. Instead of heading home, he walked toward the lakefront. He needed time to think the problem through. Palmer was right, and so was Crimpley, much though it galled him. Willy’s challenges were simply too big to throw him into a schoolroom. If they lived in a different time and a different place, it wouldn’t have been a problem. He would figure out what trade suited the boy and apprenticed him to someone who could use his help. But the forge was far too dangerous for a boy Willy’s age, and besides, he already employed Oliver. He could see if Lord Waltham needed a hall boy or a stable hand, but something told Lawrence it would be a bad idea to let a pickpocket loose in a house full of fine things.

  “Where are we going?” Willy asked as Lawrence headed down the stairs on the other side of the town green that led to the river walk.

  “Nowhere,” Lawrence answered.

  Willy stayed quiet after that. He kept his head bowed and kicked any stones that were in his path as they walked. His sullen frown was a reflection of Lawrence’s own terrible mood. It dawned on him that it couldn’t have been any nicer for Willy, knowing that he wasn’t welcome at school and that people thought he should be sent away, than it was for Lawrence. If only there were a way to give the boy something else to concentrate on besides the devious skills Hoag had taught him.

  They reached the end of the path, where it widened into a longer road with docks jutting out into Lake Brynswater. Lawrence was still lost in his thoughts. Willy, on the other hand, gasped and started to backpedal. “No, no, I’m not going with them, no!” he shouted.

  “Going with who?” Lawrence asked. He was fast enough to catch Willy and hold him by his wrist. Elsie squirmed in his arms, trying to get down, but he clamped her tight as well.

  He saw the Romani wagons a moment later. It was a small band. They looked as though they were passing through more than getting ready to make camp. A few women were filling vessels in the lake while some of the men tended their horses. Something about the bright colors of the wagons and the travelers’ clothes resonated deep in Lawrence’s heart. Looking at the men was like looking into a mirror.

  One of the Romani men caught him staring and burst into a smile. “Kushti divvus, pral.”

  Lawrence returned the greeting with an uneasy smile. “I’m not Romani,” he told the man, though for all he knew, it was a lie. Rumors about his origin, about how he’d ended up at Brynthwaite Municipal Orphanage as an infant, had abounded.

  “Are you certain?” the man asked coming closer. “You look like my cousin, Mal.”

  “I’m not certain at all,” Lawrence answered with a wry grin. He glanced to Willy, who was now frozen, staring at the Romani man with a look of terror in his wide eyes. Elsie had gone back to hiding her face on his shoulder, but now she was trembling. “I’d shake your hand,” Lawrence went on, “but….”

  “Understandable,” the Romani man laughed. He nodded to Elsie. “Are they yours?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  The Romani man must have heard the irony in his voice. He laughed. “And people accuse us of buying and selling children.”

  “Please don’t sell me to the gypsies, please don’t sell me to the gypsies. I’ll be good, I swear. I’ll be good,” Willy said, bursting into tears and attempting to yank away from Lawrence’s grip.

  “I’m not going to sell you to the gypsies,” Lawrence said, exasperated. Although it wasn’t a half bad solution.

  “Hey, boyyo.” The Romani man knelt so that he was face to face with Willy. “What did you do to make your father bring you to us?”

  Willy seized up in terror again. “Nothing. I didn’t do nothing. And he’s not my father. He’s my sister’s husband.”

  “Not nothing,” the Romani man said, rubbing his chin in consideration. “We have use for boys who do not nothing.” He gave Willy a toothy smile.

  Willy burst into tears. Lawrence, on the other hand, caught the spark of humor in the Romani’s eyes. He worked not to let his amusement show.

  “Let me see,” The Romani man went on. He reached for Willy’s free arm, holding it up and pretending to examine him. “Show me your teeth.”

  To Lawrence’s surprise, in spite of his wailing, Willy opened his mouth. The Romani man ran his finger along Willy’s teeth and held his cheek open to look at his molars, the way he might for a horse.

  “Bah,” the man said at last. “He’s not ready.” He stood. “He needs to misbehave more before he’s ready for us. Bring him back when he’s been bad.”

  “I won’t,” Willy insisted through his tears. “I won’t be bad enough. I’ll never be bad enough.”

  Lawrence grinned at the man. “How much will you give me for him? He’s an accomplished pickpocket.”

  The Romani man’s brow shot up, and for a moment there was no joke, only a serious assessment of Willy’s potential. But before Lawrence could regret his words, the man shook his head, once again on Lawrence’s side.

  “Three shillings,” he said. “Five if he continues to pick pockets and disrespect his elders.”

  “We could use the money,” Lawrence said, glancing to Willy.

  “No, I’ll be good. I swear I’ll be good,” Willy wept.

  Lawrence pretended to consider. He exchanged a look with the Romani man. The light of understanding in the man’s dark eyes touched something so deep in Lawrence’s soul that it shook him. The man very well could have been his brother, his real brother. They had the same dark hair, the same olive complexion, the same air of freedom. Only Lawrence knew full well he’d lost his freedom. He’d lost it the way every gadjo had.

  “I’ll wait,” he said at last. “The boy comes home with me for now. But if he keeps up with his stealing and refuses to learn his lessons, I’ll bring him back to you.”

  “Done.” The Romani nodded.

  “I’ll be good, I’ll be good,” Willy wept, slumping against Lawrence’s side, now that he was safe from being sold away.

  “My name’s Barsali,” the Romani man said. “Barsali Moss.”

  Lawrence hesitated. He was certain his mother had given him a name, but he’d never heard i
t spoken. All he could answer was, “Lawrence. Lawrence Smith.”

  Barsali nodded, then turned to go.

  “I was abandoned at Brynthwaite Municipal Orphanage as a baby,” Lawrence blurted. “Thirty-two years ago. In the springtime.”

  Barsali turned back to him, studying him with sharp eyes. The silence that passed between the two of them prickled with understanding. Lawrence’s heart thundered against his ribs, and he couldn’t breathe.

  At last, Barsali nodded and said, “I’ll ask around.”

  “I live at the forge, just outside of town,” Lawrence added.

  Barsali nodded, then headed back to the wagons. A woman about his age came to meet him, whispering a question as she glanced at Lawrence. Barsali answered, then turned to Lawrence with a final smile and a nod.

  There was too much power in the moment for Lawrence to stay where he was. He turned and marched swiftly back along the path, taking the first set of stairs that led him from the river walk to the street above. His mind buzzed with possibility and the sort of hope he hadn’t entertained since he was a child.

  “I’ll be good,” Willy continued to insist, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You won’t have to sell me to the gypsies. I’ll be perfect. So good they’ll take me back at the school.”

  “All right,” Lawrence answered, distracted.

  He wasn’t sure where to go from there. He was too restless to go home, but he had the children with him. He couldn’t exactly ramble through the woods, or even visit Mother Grace to ask what she thought. But Jason’s hotel loomed up ahead on the road, and in spite of the madness of how busy he knew his friend would be, what with his ridiculous engagement party that evening, in his heart, Lawrence needed to see one of the only two brothers he’d ever known.