The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part One

by Farmer, Merry

  “But she’s being mean to you,” Winnie said.

  “She’s just upset,” Marshall said, meeting Alex’s eyes. “Let’s talk about this in private.”

  Alex nodded tightly, looking as though she might either burst into tears or vomit. Both were deeper confirmation of her pregnancy. Marshall put a hand on the small of her back and started to walk her out of the room.

  “Wait,” Winnie called after them. “You aren’t just going to leave with her like that, are you?”

  Marshall glanced over his shoulder at her. “Now is not the time. This is a matter between husband and wife.”

  He caught half a second of Winnie looking hurt and another half-second of the women on the ward looking at him as though they’d told him so before giving all of his attention to Alex. They sped out of the ward and down the hall to one of the empty quarantine rooms. The one they slipped into had been the bedroom of one of the ward mothers when the hospital used to be an orphanage. It had a window that looked out over the lake. Marshall whisked Alex to that end of the room and sat in the window seat with her. He took her hands.

  “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

  He thought he’d done an admirable job of being a comfort, but Alex pulled away from him and stood just at the moment he thought she would settle.

  “Why didn’t you tell me I was pregnant?” she asked, half whining, half raging.

  Marshall stood, brow shooting up in surprise. “You didn’t know?”

  She snapped to face him with a look of incredulity. “Of course I didn’t know.” Before he could answer, her face crumpled into a mask of tears.

  “Alex,” he said, trying not to scold but failing. “You’re a trained physician. You know how babies are conceived. You know what we’ve been up to. You have to have known this was inevitable.”

  “Don’t sound so smug,” she snapped, wiping angrily at her eyes. “This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it? To brag to the world that you, Dr. Marshall Pycroft, orphan and widower, impregnated a noblewoman.”

  She couldn't have hurt him more if she’d slapped him. “All I’ve ever wanted is you,” he said. The words instantly felt inadequate.

  “Well, you’ve had me, all right.” Alex began to pace, her shaking hand pressed to her forehead. “And in no time, the whole world will know.”

  “In no time, the world will see us as a happy family,” he said, the sentiment that had felt so strong that morning beginning to crumble. “The girls will be home. We’ll all be together. Our joy can only increase.”

  “Joy?” Alex stopped her pacing and stared at him. “Do you know what people will say?” He opened his mouth to answer, but she beat him to the punch. “They’ll snicker about how far Lady Alexandra Dyson has fallen. They’ll make jokes about how quick she was to rut with commoners.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” Marshall asked in a hollow voice. His chest felt hollow as well, as though his heart, which had swollen with so much love and pride in the last six weeks, had been nothing but a balloon that had just popped.

  “My mother will believe we married because I fell pregnant, not that it happened afterward,” Alex went on, hiding her face in her hands. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “By me.” Marshall’s shoulders dropped. The air rushed out of his lungs. It felt as though every last ounce of hope bled out of his soul. “You’re embarrassed by me.”

  Alex glanced up at him through the veil of her hands. Her eyes widened as though she had just realized what she’d said. “Oh, no, Marshall. I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, but there was no energy in her words.

  “Yes,” he said, swallowing the pain that ripped at him. “You did.” He shook his head, swiping a hand over his face. “No wonder you haven’t smiled at me behind my back.”

  “I…I haven’t….” Alex shook her head in confusion and wrung her hands, taking a tentative step toward him.

  He held up his hands, backing away. “I knew full well going into this marriage that you didn’t love me the way I love you. I was a fool to forget that.”

  “It’s not that I don’t love you,” she said, pleading in her eyes.

  “Just not as much,” he finished for her. “It was ridiculous of me to think I could change that so easily. What kind of ass believes he can sway a reluctant woman to love him by making love to her.”

  “But…you’re very good at—”

  “That’s not what I need to hear right now,” he cut her off before she could insult him with a compliment. “Particularly if my skill only adds to your shame.”

  “I’m not….” She couldn’t finish her denial. Her face pinched into misery all over again, and she moved to sit heavily on the corner of the bed.

  He didn’t know what to do. Every fiber of his being wanted to sit down beside her, take her in his arms, and kiss away her tears. He wanted to comfort her, to reassure her that everything would be all right and that they would be happy. He wanted to encourage her about the baby, apologize for not realizing she hadn’t put two and two together herself, and to talk with her about all the beautiful things they had to look forward to. But he was the crux of her complaint. His love for her, and the way he showed it, was an embarrassment to her. The life he had to offer her was a pale comparison to the life she had before. He’d been a fool to think she wouldn’t mind losing the finer things of life by throwing her lot in with him.

  Without a shred of hope that it would make a difference, he sank to sit on the bed beside her, careful not to touch her. He folded his hands in front of him, almost as if praying, and said, “What’s done cannot be undone now. Especially not now. I’m sorry that we didn’t think through the consequences more thoroughly.”

  He glanced to her, but she’d turned her face away and was weeping silently. It was agony not to reach out to her.

  “Focus on what we’ve accomplished,” he said. “You didn’t have to return to Hampshire. You aren’t locked away in some country house in the south, watching your mother dote on Anthony Fretwell while his miscreant son dotes on Lady Arabella. I….” He swallowed, his stomach turning. “I know how you feel about George Fretwell. It has to be a relief not to see that.” Just as it was a relief for him not to have to look at the man’s smug face, knowing that he’d bedded the woman Marshall loved beyond reason.

  There was a fair chance that Alex’s misery now was because she still loved that pompous, cruel ass. She might be in mourning for the fact that she was now stuck with him, a lowly, country doctor, carrying his child instead of the child of a sophisticated, upper-class gentleman. He’d lived through twelve years of Clara resenting him for those exact things. The sensation wasn’t a new one, but it was all the more painful because he loved Alex in a way he had never loved Clara.

  “You’re here, at the hospital,” he went on. “You’re living your dream of practicing medicine. Surely the embarrassment of an unworthy husband and a common baby is worth that.”

  “Marshall, I don’t think of you as common,” Alex insisted, twisting to face him.

  “Yes, you do.” He stood, his heart breaking to see her in such distress. “Otherwise you’d be smiling right now instead of sobbing.”

  “I’m not sad that I’m having a baby,” she said.

  “You are,” he argued, his pain showing too vividly in his voice. “The very least you could do is not lie to me. I can accept your rejection as long as you’re honest about it.”

  “But I’m not—”

  He held up a hand, squeezing his eyes shut to steady his emotions. Alex was silent as he took a breath, grappling with his disappointment.

  “I think it’s best if we face our situation with clarity and truth,” he went on at last. “I’m sorry that I forced myself on you. I should have known better, and I should have waited until we were certain this marriage was a good idea. We could have had an annulment.”

  “You did not force yourself on me,” Alex said, standing and facing him. “If I’d wanted you to stop, I would have tol
d you. Every time. I would have told you no more if I didn’t want you.”

  He didn’t want to hold onto hope as he met her eyes, but it wouldn’t leave him. She was being as honest as he demanded she be.

  “This will change everything,” she went on, her strength returning. “I cannot change how I was born any more than you can. You are used to your life. You’ve lived it for thirty-three years. I’ve lived it for two months. You cannot expect me to jump from one world to another without mourning what I’ve lost. Especially when I’m facing so much rejection from my own flesh and blood. Everyone I’ve ever known will see this as a humiliation. You don’t understand how cruel society can be.”

  “Yes, actually, I do,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as possible. “I’m seeing it right now.” He shook his head and started toward the door, needing to get as far away from Alex as possible.

  “Marshall,” she called after him as his hand closed around the doorknob.

  He spun back to her, shoots of anger pushing up between the layers of his pain and sadness. “Don’t lay this all at my feet, Alexandra. You knew my heart was involved in this decision. I could have pretended I didn’t love you, but I didn’t. Because I do. I love you. But now I’m beginning to think you didn’t care about that, didn’t care whether I was hurt, as long as you could have what you wanted. Now you have it. And somehow I still end up with the thin end of the wedge.”

  He couldn’t say more, not when his emotions were so close to the surface. All he could do was shake his head and leave the room, wondering how he could possibly move on.

  Lawrence

  Lawrence’s pulse beat an anxious rhythm in his ears as he showed the pair of grates he’d recently finished making to Mr. Gillingham. “They’re sturdy, and they’ll keep debris and animals out of your basement in all weather,” he said, hating the fact that he sounded like a salesman when he was a craftsman and an artist. But they were desperate for the money. His failure to meet a few deadlines in the last six weeks meant fewer jobs coming in.

  “Hmm.” Gillingham rubbed his chin, staring at the grates with narrowed eyes. “I won’t deny that the quality is superb, but I’m not sure I need superb quality. I’m building a feed store, not a castle.”

  “A little quality upfront means you’ll have less in the way of repairs and replacement later,” Lawrence said, trying to keep a smile on his face.

  He glanced across the yard to where Matty stood inside the outline of stones that was supposed to be the foundation of their house. In the last six weeks, he’d managed to build a rough hearth and install an iron cook-stove, but without walls or anything more than a dirt floor, the so-called kitchen looked ridiculous. And much colder weather was only a few weeks away.

  Gillingham caught Lawrence staring and grinned. “Your wife looks a little chilly,” he said.

  It seemed like a bad move to tell the man Matty wasn’t his wife, that he didn’t believe in the manufactured strictures of marriage, especially now that Matty was visibly pregnant. “I’ve been building her a house,” he said instead.

  “It needs a little work,” Gillingham chuckled.

  “It does,” Lawrence laughed along, as though they were friends sharing a joke. The truth was that if he didn’t win a contract to supply Gillingham’s new shop with grates, if he didn’t increase sales overall, he wouldn’t have the money for supplies for the house or to hire an occasional second pair of hands to help him build it. He was trapped in all the ways of society that he abhorred.

  For what felt like the hundredth time, Lawrence’s thoughts flew to Barsali Moss and his band. Where were they now? What kind of freedom were they experiencing as they roamed England? And what would happen if he dropped everything to run after them to live the life his heart yearned for?

  “Why should I pay twice as much for grates you would make when I can order them from a catalog and have them shipped?” Gillingham asked.

  Lawrence’s stomach twisted at the question and his dangerous dreams evaporated. He’d heard the same suggestion about mass-produced goods far, far too many times lately. “Customization,” he answered. “There’s no way to be certain anything you buy in a catalog will fit once it arrives. If you give the job to me, I can oversee the process of installation from start to finish.”

  “For an extra fee,” Gillingham said with a wry grin. He shook his head and took a step back. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Lawrence said with a nod, hating the way the deferential term sounded. “I’ll be here when you make your decision.”

  He waved as Gillingham strode back to his horse, mounted, and rode off. Somehow, he managed to keep his smile in place as well. Until Gillingham had rounded the corner and disappeared. Then his shoulders dropped and an anxious frown darkened his face.

  “Is he going to buy?” Matty asked from her hollow kitchen.

  Lawrence left the heat of the forge to trudge across the cold, withering garden to her. “I don’t know,” he said, taking her into his arms.

  She wore a thick skirt and blouse with a sturdy shawl tucked around her shoulders, but he could feel how cold she was all the same. She snuggled into his warmth and sighed as she rested her head against his shoulder. Lawrence rubbed her arms to warm her even more, then rested a hand on the bump of her stomach.

  Everything had been easy when all he had to worry about was himself. He’d been happy to live in the tiny room above the forge, eating simple food and patching his clothes instead of buying more. It didn’t matter how many hinges or grates he sold then. A few projects could carry him through the winter.

  It was all different now. Different enough to have him living with the desire to run every day.

  Elsie slipped out from behind the half-constructed kitchen wall and slammed into Lawrence’s leg. She shivered as she hugged him. Twin spikes of annoyance and compassion hit Lawrence. He couldn’t have just one sweet moment alone with Matty without one of her siblings interrupting. But Elsie was his responsibility now too.

  “Poppet, you’re freezing,” he said, letting Matty go so he could pick up Elsie. He sent Matty an apologetic look. She shrugged and smiled, stroking Elsie’s hair for a moment before returning to the soup she was making on the stove.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to finish the walls of the kitchen soon?” Matty asked. “It’s just that, being exposed like this, the stove loses its heat so quickly.” She sent him a sheepish look. She hated asking for anything, and yet Lawrence could see how desperately she needed walls.

  “I’ll do my best,” he replied. It was all he could do, but he was deeply afraid it wasn’t enough. He could ask Jason for help, of course. Jason would send a crew to finish building the house within a month, and it would end up being finer than anything Lawrence could accomplish on his own. But he wasn’t in the habit of asking for charity from his friends, no matter how insignificant the expense would be for them.

  But if he was going to be in a position to afford to finish the house, he needed to work.

  He attempted to put Elsie down, but she squirmed and squealed and clung to him.

  “Elsie, I have jobs to do,” he tried to explain, unable to keep the exasperation from his voice. “If I don’t work, we don’t eat. You don’t want to go hungry, do you?”

  She shook her head, staring up at him with wide eyes that had clearly known hunger before. It tore at something fundamental in him, the visceral need to protect and provide for what was his. Except that what was his was something he’d never asked for or wanted.

  “I’ll take her.”

  Lawrence was pushed out of his dark thoughts as Mother Grace walked from the forest path into the yard, arms outstretched. Instant relief washed through Lawrence, and he crossed to greet her.

  “Another visit?” he asked when he drew close to her. “Aren’t you afraid people will think you want to rejoin society?”

  Mother Grace laughed. “They know better than that. Come here, sweetling,” she said t
o Elsie.

  Elsie shook her head and buried her face against Lawrence’s shoulder.

  Mother Grace hummed. “Still afraid, I see.” She narrowed her eyes and studied Elsie’s shivering form. “Do you have something to be afraid of, love?”

  To Lawrence’s surprise, Elsie nodded against his shoulder.

  “There’s nothing here that can harm you,” Lawrence told her. “You’re home now, and you’re safe.”

  Elsie shook her head and clung tighter to him.

  “She just needs more time to adjust,” Matty said, coming over to give Mother Grace a hug of greeting. “Goddess knows, she’s been through a lot.”

  “Look at you, speaking of our Mother as though you’ve been doing it your whole life,” Mother Grace said with a laugh.

  “I’ve decided I like the old ways better than the new ones,” Matty answered with a smile. She turned to Lawrence and Elsie. “Come on, Elsie, darling. Lawrence truly does have to work. But if you sit right here in the kitchen with Mother Grace, you’ll be able to see him the whole time.”

  Reluctantly, Elsie nodded, and Lawrence was able to put her down. She scurried to Mother Grace and latched onto her skirts.

  Mother Grace chuckled and smoothed a hand over her head. “She’s a special one, our Elsie. She has the magic about her.”

  A chill ran down Lawrence’s spine. Magic wasn’t a joke or a frivolity to Mother Grace, and if she said Elsie had it, she shouldn’t be ignored. “She’s in good hands, then,” he said before nodding and heading back to the forge.

  With or without Gillingham’s order, he needed to work. Not just for the money that would see them fed, sheltered, and clothed, but for his own sanity. The heat of the forge and the ache of his strained muscles were the only things that kept him grounded when the world tipped off balance.

  “Good work with the molds, Oliver,” Lawrence said, glancing over the silent young man’s shoulder to where he’d poured molten iron for a gate. Oliver was another concern that weighed on him. Without the forge to come to for work, chances were Oliver would be locked away in an institution. It would be a shameful waste. The young man was different, but he was still useful.