The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part One

by Farmer, Merry

  At last, Lawrence found his rhythm, hammering away on one of the many small projects that would provide a week’s worth of food or a single pair of shoes or something tiny but necessary. The work steadied him, melting away the knot of worry in his gut.

  “You look more relaxed,” Matty said when she brought him a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread nearly an hour later.

  “I’d be even more relaxed if we could find ten minutes together,” he said, taking the bowl and bread from her, but setting them on the counter behind the forge. He took her in his arms, glanced around to make sure Elsie wasn’t about to crash into them, then kissed Matty with a passion that had been bottled up within him for too long. Oliver kept working as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

  Matty giggled low in her throat as he kissed her. “I miss this,” she said with a longing sigh.

  “So do I,” he said, kissing her again. His body seemed to sense the urgency of the opportunity that presented itself by rushing into arousal. He glanced to the stairs leading up to their room. “We could manage it in ten minutes,” he whispered. “As long as you don’t mind something quick.”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all,” Matty answered, her eyes flashing with desire.

  “Then come on,” Lawrence whispered.

  He took her hand and dashed to the stairs.

  “Smith! Where do you think you’re going? I demand to speak to you!” Of all people, Mayor Crimpley came marching across the forge’s yard.

  Lawrence groaned and backed away from the stairs, letting Matty’s hand go. It was no wonder he’d been in such a foul mood lately. He couldn’t even manage ten minutes to shag Matty without being interrupted.

  “What do you want this time, Crimpley?” Lawrence snarled, ignoring everything he’d learned about manners. If he scared the man away, all the better.

  Crimpley balked at the sight of Lawrence and made a face as though he stank, which, in all fairness, after a morning of working at the forge, he probably did. “I demand to know why Willy Hoag is working at the hotel instead of attending classes, as he should.”

  Lawrence clenched his jaw, glaring at Crimpley. “The arrangement has been in place for weeks, but you’re only complaining about it now?”

  Crimpley puffed up, offended. “Children belong in school.”

  “You know full well why he’s not there.”

  “It is a grave dereliction of duty and a violation of law to send them to work at that boy’s age.”

  At the mention of the law, Lawrence saw the direction Crimpley was heading in with his meddling. Lawrence wasn’t about to let Crimpley’s version of the law interfere with his responsibilities.

  “Really?” He crossed his arms. “How old is Willy?”

  “Why…he’s…I’m sure he’s…he looks as though—”

  “You don’t even know, so how can you be sure it’s a violation of the law for him to work for Jason instead of attending school?” Lawrence took a step closer to him.

  “Any child under the age of ten is forbidden—”

  “Willy is ten,” Lawrence lied. “And he’s getting a damn sight better education under Jason’s watch than your Mr. Palmer at Brynthwaite School could ever give him.” That much was solid truth.

  “It’s not just about labor and education,” Crimpley said, bristling with annoyance. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a folded piece of newspaper, thrusting it at Lawrence. “That boy needs constant supervision by competent, moral adults. He needs the kind of supervision a reformatory provides. I’ve just had a reminder of how wicked the boy’s past is and how few moral adults he’s encountered.”

  Lawrence snatched the paper from him and unfolded it.

  Instantly, his blood ran cold and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. It was a clipping of an article printed in the Grasmere Gazette. It was short and to the point, and the headline said it all. “Robert Carson Found Dead In Home.”

  Matty had approached during Lawrence’s confrontation with Crimpley and peeked over his shoulder at the article. “What?” she gasped as she read it, then snatched the paper from Lawrence’s hand. “No.”

  Her eyes scanned over the paper, taking in the facts Lawrence had just read. Robert Carson, Hoag’s chief crony, known as Bobbo, had been found dead in his flat a few nights before. He’d been strangled. There were no signs of forced entry, and it was assumed he knew his murderer.

  “Are you saying Willy somehow made it to Grasmere without any of us knowing and played a hand in this murder?” Lawrence asked Crimpley, eyes narrowed.

  “The dead man was instrumental in landing the boy’s father in jail,” Crimpley said. “He has reason to be involved.”

  “That’s absurd,” Lawrence snapped. “Other than the fact that Willy has been here in Brynthwaite, accounted for at all times, Hoag was abusive toward him and his sisters. Willy and the others are well rid of him, and they know it.”

  “So you say,” Crimpley grumbled.

  “How would a boy of—” He stopped short of saying “nine” and giving away his earlier lie. “How would a child have anything to do with a man being strangled in his home? It takes a good deal of strength to wrestle a full-grown man to the point of killing him like that.”

  “I don’t know,” Crimpley said. “But it’s suspicious. Therefore, the boy shouldn’t be allowed around decent people.”

  “I trust Willy at the hotel,” Lawrence said, “and Jason does too. Beyond that, you have nothing to do with it.”

  “I am the mayor of this town,” Crimpley argued, stabbing a finger into his open palm. “The safety and prosperity of the people of Brynthwaite is my responsibility.”

  “Then why don’t you put your energy into figuring out who murdered Bobbo and how to prevent the same from happening here?”

  Crimpley had no answer. He stood where he was, bristling and clenching his jaw. “If you won’t heed my words about the dangers that boy presents, then it’s on your head.”

  He spun and marched back to where his horse grazed by the side of the road. Lawrence ignored him, turning to Matty, who continued to stare at the newspaper clipping.

  “This isn’t right,” she said in a low voice. “This definitely isn’t right.”

  “I’ll write to Rev. Albright to see if he knows more,” Lawrence said. “I could even visit him myself.”

  “No.” Matty grabbed his arm, looking up at him with fear in her eyes. “I’m scared about what this means. It…it feels like Hoag is involved.”

  “Trevor Hoag is in prison, awaiting trial for murder,” Lawrence reassured her. “He couldn’t have done this.”

  Matty didn’t contradict him, but it was obvious she wanted to. She nodded and handed the article back to him. “I have sewing to do,” she said in a wispy voice. “The children need warmer clothes for winter.”

  Lawrence kissed her before she turned to march back to the kitchen, hugging herself. He wanted to be optimistic and to believe that Bobbo’s murder was inconsequential, but deep down, he knew something was very wrong.

  Flossie

  Flossie practically danced through the halls of the hotel after her appointment with Alexandra, her heart soaring. By the spring, she and Jason would welcome their first child into the world. And while according to every law of morality and propriety, she should have been ashamed to be carrying a child out of wedlock, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She and Jason were as committed to each other as two people could be. She had every faith that, no matter which way the wind ended up blowing with Lady E, Jason would stand by her through thick and thin. He would be an excellent father, as evidenced by the way he’d taken Willy Hoag under his wing.

  “Are you sure you don’t need me to carry any messages, Miss Flossie?” he asked as she crossed through the lobby on her way to the kitchen.

  “Here, it’s Miss Stowe to you,” Daniel scolded Willy from behind the hotel desk. He wore a teasing smile, though. As far as Flossie could tell, Daniel and the rest of the Dragon�
�s Head staff liked Willy. And after everything he’d been through, Willy needed to be around people who liked him, just as Jason needed the same.

  “It’s all right, Daniel,” Flossie said, smiling. “Willy is young enough to call me whatever he’d like to.”

  “Mr. Throckmorton calls you just Flossie,” Willy said, catching up to her and following her through the dining room. Afternoon tea was well underway, and the hotel was crowded with guests who had come north from the cities to relax in the idyllic autumnal scenery of changing leaves, blue skies, and the even bluer lake. “That’s because he loves you.”

  Flossie grinned from ear to ear, ruffling Willy’s hair as the two of them walked together. “Who told you that, you little scamp?” She couldn’t keep the pure joy of her condition out of her voice or off her face.

  “He did,” Willy went on. “Well, I can tell by the way he looks at you and talks to you.”

  “If a child can see it, then the whole world probably can,” Flossie said with a sideways grin.

  They should probably be more discreet. Lady E had a definite image of how she wanted her engagement to Jason to appear to the rest of the world. She likely had a full picture of what she wanted her life with Jason to look like once they were married. Though Flossie sincerely hoped that life would see Lady E living in London while Jason lived in Brynthwaite with the two meeting only occasionally. There was no way to tell, though.

  “This is preposterous! I demand to see the manager.”

  Flossie stopped short before reaching the door to the kitchen at the loud complaint. She turned, scanning the dining room, until she spotted a pair of middle-aged gentlemen at a table near the window. A tea service was set on their table and one of the newer, younger waiters stood by, looking flustered.

  “Willy, go on ahead and tell Cook I want to talk to her about the menu for the Fortescue party next week,” she said with barely a glance for the boy.

  “Yes, miss,” Willy said. He skittered off as Flossie made her way across the dining room.

  “I won’t be cheated like this,” the man at the table continued to growl as Flossie approached. “I paid for afternoon tea, and I expect to get everything that’s coming to me.”

  “Quite right,” the man taking tea with him agreed, his massive mustache quivering.

  “Sir, I can assure you, this is what we serve for tea,” the hapless waiter tried to explain.

  “Poppycock,” the first man huffed. “We are entitled to at least twice as many sandwiches. And where are the savory pies?”

  “Gentlemen, is there a problem here?” Flossie asked with a smile as she reached the table.

  The complaining man took one look at her and sneered, “Go away, this is none of your concern.”

  Flossie braced herself. It was going to be one of those encounters. “I am the hotel manager, sir. If there is any way—”

  “Of course you’re not,” the man snapped. “I demand to speak to the real manager.”

  “Mr.—” Flossie fished for his name.

  “Bligh,” the man snapped.

  “Mr. Bligh, I can assure you, I am the manager,” Flossie said, her smile shifting to a firm, businesslike stare.

  Mr. Bligh and his friend glared at her, both going red in the face. “What kind of joke is this?” the man with the mustache demanded.

  “Mark my word, missy,” Mr. Bligh said, shaking his finger at her. “I’ll have you fired for your impertinence. Does your manager know you swan about, pretending to be better than yourself?”

  “Miss Stowe is the manager,” the waiter stammered. “She is.”

  “I am,” Flossie told the men with a tight nod. “And the food you’ve been served for tea is our standard fare. Additional sandwiches and pies can be purchased—”

  “Insolence!” the mustache man shouted.

  “Get out of my sight at once, you brazen strumpet,” Mr. Bligh said.

  “She is the manager, you know,” a gentleman at a nearby table said.

  Flossie peeked around her. The attention of the entire dining room was now focused on her and the men making the complaint. Not everyone looked to be on her side either. “I can assure you, sirs,” she went on, “your tea service is—”

  “How dare you address me when I have ordered you out of my sight?” Mr. Bligh threw down his serviette and stood, glowering at her. “Where is your manager?”

  “Sir, I am the manager. Shouting at me won’t—”

  Without warning, Mr. Bligh slapped her across the face so hard she stumbled to one side. A chorus of gasps rose up throughout the dining room, as did the sound of several chairs scraping as people stood. It took Flossie a few more seconds to recover from her shock and straighten. By the time she did, the man who had defended her from the next table had already wrestled Mr. Bligh back into his chair.

  “Are you all right?” a woman who had been taking tea nearby put her arm around Flossie’s shoulders to steady her.

  Flossie couldn’t answer, she was too stunned. Her face smarted, and she was sure the blow would leave a mark.

  “She’s the bloody manager,” the man who had come to her defense shouted at Mr. Bligh and his friend. “Only a coward strikes a woman, and all over sandwiches? What kind of demon are you?”

  “Unhand me at once,” Mr. Bligh demanded, struggling against the man restraining him. “I’m a barrister. I’ll have your hide for this.”

  “What the devil is going on in here?” Jason’s voice boomed across the dining room.

  Flossie’s stomach sank. Of all the times for Jason to return early from tea with Lady E. She covered the side of her face with her hand and turned to watch him stride across the room with all the authority of a demigod. In a flash, she knew the situation was about to get much worse.

  “This man struck Miss Stowe,” the young waiter blurted before Flossie had a chance to say anything.

  “What?” Jason’s whole demeanor switched to one of fury, and he doubled his pace. The guests who were still attempting to enjoy their tea rose from their places and leapt out of his way as he cut a path straight through the dining room.

  “Ah, the manager at last,” Mr. Bligh said with all the confidence of someone who thought authority would be on his side.

  Jason reached Flossie, his eyes going wide with fury that was downright terrifying as he took in the sight of her face. There was no point in hiding the damage, so Flossie lowered her hand with a sigh. The mark Mr. Bligh left must have been blatant, because Jason’s face went white with wrath.

  “Did you do this?” he hissed, glaring at Mr. Bligh.

  Mr. Bligh stood. “This impertinent chit—”

  That was as far as he got. Jason threw a solid punch, landing his fist square on the man’s jaw. Mr. Bligh wheeled sideways, crashing into the table and upsetting the whole thing. Another round of gasps and cries sounded across the dining room. Mr. Bligh’s friend looked as though he might soil himself as he bent to attend to his friend.

  “I want you out of my hotel now,” Jason seethed, staring down at Mr. Bligh without a hint of pity or remorse in his eyes. “What room are you in?”

  Mr. Bligh didn’t reply. He was too busy struggling to his feet with his friend’s help. His nose dripped blood onto his upper lip and chin.

  “I’ll find out,” Willy said. Flossie hadn’t realized he’d returned from the kitchen, but in a flash, he scrambled toward the lobby.

  “You’re Mr. Throckmorton?” Mr. Bligh half asked, half groaned as he found his feet.

  “I am, and I am the owner of this hotel,” Jason said. He glanced over his shoulder at Flossie, then beyond her to where several waiters and porters were standing by. “Fetch Constable Burnell. I want this man arrested for assault.”

  “Ha!” Mr. Bligh barked. “Then they’ll have to arrest you as well.” He dabbed at his nose with a serviette. “I’ll bring you up on charges for this.”

  “Please do,” Jason growled. “And when you’re through embarrassing yourself by doing so, I�
�ll make certain that every newspaper in the country hears the tale of how you abuse women.”

  “That woman is walking around your hotel, masquerading as the manager,” Mr. Bligh said, pointing at Flossie.

  “Miss Stowe is the manager,” Jason roared. “She’s more than that.”

  Whether it was Jason’s words or the threat in his demeanor, much of the color left Mr. Bligh’s face. Strangely, though, he stood straighter and stared Jason down. “So that’s the way of things, is it? And here I was given to believe that you had the full backing of Lady Elisabeth Dyson and her social connections.”

  The sinking feeling in Flossie’s stomach grew. Mr. Bligh no longer felt like a random, disgruntled guest.

  “What’s it to you?” Jason snapped. “I’ve ordered you out of my hotel. Stay at your own peril, or if you care to face the law.”

  “I am the law, sir,” Mr. Bligh said in clipped tones. “And I am currently in the employ of a Mr. Percival Danforth.”

  Flossie flinched, which made the pain in her face all the more acute.

  Jason’s back went ramrod straight. “Why are you here and what do you want?” he growled.

  Mr. Bligh laughed, then winced and cradled his jaw, where a wicked bruise was already forming. “I was sent here along with Mr. Robert Gould, solicitor, to negotiate with Dr. Marshall Pycroft. My client was willing to discuss a shared custody arrangement. But after this….” He sneered, then grimaced. “I shall be returning to London to inform my client that, under no circumstances should he consider returning those innocent girls to such a lawless place. With friends as violent as you, Dr. Pycroft is clearly no sort of guardian for vulnerable children.”

  “And I shall inform Dr. Pycroft that his daughters are in the hands of a man who keeps company with those who would strike women,” Jason growled. “I’m sure the court would be very interested to hear about this situation.”

  Mr. Bligh lost his smarmy look. He must have underestimated what he was up against.