“And where’s your family, missy?” Mr. Fox asked. His smile was congenial, even if his words stung.
“In Hampshire,” Alex answered with a tight smile.
“I thought Dr. Pycroft was traveling to London for the holidays,” Mr. Morrison asked from the next bed over, a mischievous light in his eyes.
“Yes, well, Dr. Pycroft is not—” She stopped. In fact, Marshall was her family now. Not only by virtue of the marriage certificate that sat in a drawer in their bedroom, but because of the child they’d made together that grew inside her. She pressed a hand to her stomach as she moved to Mr. Morrison’s bed. “Let’s see how that foot is healing, shall we?” she deflected the muddle of emotion that descended on her every time she thought of her baby.
Mr. Morrison and Mr. Fox watched her as if they weren’t fooled for a moment as she set about changing the dressing on Mr. Morrison’s foot. It didn’t help that Alex felt the heat rising to her face as she endured the scrutiny. She couldn’t defend her thoughts or her actions in any way. It was horrible of her to forget Marshall was her family, her most intimate family. She was unforgiveable for being so harsh with him lately. But since figuring out she was pregnant, it was as though a mountain of uncertainty had descended on her, crushing her to dust. Every day, she woke up with a storm of emotion already raging inside of her, and when she finally flopped into bed at night—a bed she still shared with Marshall, in spite of the coldness between them—those emotions barely settled. It was almost as though feelings were being thrust on her from some outside force, and she was powerless against them.
“There you are,” she said with a smile to Mr. Morrison once his dressing was changed. “You’re as good as new.”
She gathered up the soiled dressing and carried it out of the room to the laundry before anyone could engage her in another conversation she didn’t want to have. She’d utterly lost her ability to converse about anything in the past month. No matter what topic was brought up, she found herself wanting to weep in sympathy with anything even slightly sad or rage, red-faced, at the teeniest injustices. She wasn’t herself, and it was beginning to drive her down.
Except when Marshall was around. Alex deposited the soiled linen in its place, then leaned heavily against one of the shelves in the laundry room, melancholy welling up in her. Marshall had a calming presence. She’d known it from the moment she’d met him. Patients responded to it, and the staff of the hospital respected it, even when Marshall himself flew into a temper over little things. He knew how she felt, even when she wasn’t sure what the emotions twirling through her meant. It was much easier to focus on the hang-dog look in his eyes, the somber acceptance of his unrequited love, and to lay the bulk of the blame for the awkwardness between them on his shoulders than it was for her to examine her own feelings, but it wasn’t fair. Not at all.
Alex was on the verge of working up the energy to push away from the linen shelves and to continue with her work when Winnie stepped into the room. She saw Alex and stumbled to a stop, squeaking in fright as she did.
“I was just resting,” Alex said, snapping straight and forcing herself to behave like a doctor, not a ninny.
Apparently, Alex wasn’t the only one suffering from an excess of inexplicable emotion. Winnie’s cheeks went pink as she stared at Alex, first with something rather like shame, and then with anger. Both emotions quickly vanished, replaced by what would have seemed haughty on an upper-class woman.
“Begging your pardon, Dr. Dyson. I was just collecting linens to change beds,” Winnie said, marching across the room as though she were better than Alex.
“Go about your business, then,” Alex told her, managing a weak smile. She headed toward the door, but stopped before reaching it. “Oh, I meant to ask if you were able to do anything with that pot I burned this morning.”
Winnie let out an impatient huff and said over her shoulder, “I scrubbed it as best I could, but it will need to be soaked in lye before it can be restored.”
Alex opened her mouth to thank Winnie, but was cut off.
“Any real wife would know how not to burn something as simple as porridge,” Winnie said, her chin tilted up.
Alex gaped at her. “I beg your pardon?”
Winnie glanced over her shoulder, and when she saw the incredulous look Alex wore, some of her smugness vanished. She turned fully to Alex and said, “What I mean is that Dr. Pycroft deserves better than to be served burned food. He’s a fine man and needs adequate nourishment.”
Alex crossed her arms. “Dr. Pycroft was the one who burned the porridge. He left the pot on the stove by accident after the two of us fell into discussion about the cases we needed to treat today before he departed for London.”
Winnie had the decency to look ashamed of herself, but there was still something suspicious and defensive in her eyes. Alex studied her, trying to read the clues in everything the woman hadn’t said. It was well known in the hospital that Winnie was sweet on Marshall. Alex had warned Marshall not to dismiss it. She’d warned him that inviting Winnie into their home wasn’t the best idea he’d had. But they were both overworked and under too much pressure to say no when Winnie offered her domestic services. Once the girls were back, Winnie could return to work exclusively at the hospital, although Alex wondered if even that was a good idea. Something wasn’t right about the young woman.
“Dr. Pycroft has gone to London now,” Alex said. “He will be gone for a month at least. And when he returns, his daughters will assume the domestic duties in our household. You might want to consider finding alternate employment in the new year.”
“Dr. Pycroft needs me,” Winnie snapped back.
She left the simple statement hanging in a way that made the hair on the back of Alex’s neck stand up. Surely the girl didn’t think she had any sort of romantic chance with Marshall, did she? Marshall was loyal to a fault, loyal to Alex.
The thought filled Alex with both confidence and ripping guilt. Marshall had always been unfailingly loyal to her, and yet, she’d disappointed him in so many ways. He deserved a great deal better than a feckless wife who couldn’t control her own emotions.
“I advise you take special care with your work this month,” Alex told Winnie as she turned toward the door. “It may end up informing the reference the hospital gives you for your future employment search.”
She left before Winnie could fire another comeback. The girl was too impertinent for her own good. Marshall might have been loyal, but Alex was beginning to think he’d underestimated the threat Winnie presented and had coddled her too much. Perhaps it was the pity inspired by her eyepatch and the scars on her once-pretty face or the fact that she’d been his patient. All Alex knew was that, in addition to everything else, she would have to keep an eye on the woman.
That troubling thought stayed with her as long as it took for her to walk downstairs. She met Mrs. Garforth coming up the hall with the day’s mail.
“A letter came for you, Dr. Dyson,” Mrs. Garforth said in her businesslike way. “Well, they’re all for you. For the hospital at least. But I thought you’d want to see this one.” She handed a thin envelope to Alex. “Hampshire,” she finished.
Alex’s hopes rose and fell in a wave that left her reeling with nausea. “Thank you, Mrs. Garforth.” She took the rest of the mail in her free hand and headed into the office.
Anticipating the worst, she shut the office door, sealing herself in the privacy of the office. The rest of the mail appeared to be bills and other business correspondence, but the thin envelope was her mother’s personal stationary. Alex put the rest of the mail on the desk, then sank into the chair and opened her mother’s letter with her finger.
The message was short and perfectly clear. “Alexandra. I am writing to inform you that George Fretwell and Lady Arabella were married last week. The family will be spending Christmas at Huntingdon Hall, since Elisabeth is going to London and Lord Thornwell does not wish to be alone for the holidays. You are to make no at
tempt to see myself or any other member of the family. You are not invited to partake of the holidays in any way. The staff of Huntingdon Hall has been made aware of this and will bar you from entrance if you set foot on the property.” The curt letter was signed, “Mrs. A. Fretwell.”
Alex let out a heavy breath, letting the letter drop. She waited for the tears to come, waited for the sobbing she was certain would overtake her at any moment. Nothing happened. No great swelling of emotion clawed at her. She felt numb from the inside out. All she could do was stare across the room at nothing, feeling tiny and alone.
But she wasn’t staring at nothing. Her gaze had fallen on Marshall’s white coat on its peg. She could visualize him standing there, shaking his head and telling her she was better off without that arrogant, insufferable, cruel lot. She could practically hear his indignation on her behalf as well as promises that they would have a perfectly delightful Christmas without thinking once about her wretched, former family. She could feel his arms around her and his lips on hers as he hinted at all the ways he could make her forget everything but how fervently he loved her.
That was when the tears started. She was an absolute, bloody fool.
Without hesitation and without regard to what she must look like, she pushed out of the chair, letting the letter drop to the floor. She fled to the hallway, then on toward the waiting room.
“Mrs. Garforth, what time is it?” she asked as she dashed toward the door.
“You can still catch the train if you run,” Mrs. Garforth told her, knowing all too well what Alex was up to.
She ran as best she could in skirts, across the street and on toward the train station. It was clear from the activity near the platform and the shriek of a whistle that the train was there. As she mounted the steps, gulping for breath, a conductor shouted, “All aboard!”
By the time she made it to the platform, the Brynthwaite porters and train conductors were walking the length of the train, shutting the doors and making sure the train was clear for departure. Out of the corner of her eye, Alex noticed Flossie waving at the first-class car. She followed the line of Flossie’s wave to see Jason sticking his head out of a window in a first-class compartment.
“Marshall,” Alex called, rushing toward the train. “Marshall.”
Jason looked away from Flossie to her, then ducked his head back into the car. A moment later, Marshall popped his head out in Jason’s place.
“Alex, what are you doing here?” he called as the train’s engine let out a mighty puff of steam. The train slowly began to move forward.
“I had to say goodbye,” Alex called, dodging around a porter to reach Marshall’s window. “And I had to say I’m sorry.” She had to walk to keep pace with the train as it sped up.
A look of relief and compassion filled Marshall’s eyes. “It’s all right, love,” he said, reaching for her.
“No, it’s not.” Alex took his hand, picking up her pace as the train’s speed increased. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. And I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, losing his grip on her hand as the train began to move too fast. “Everything will be all right.”
“I’ll miss you,” Alex said with a gulp of desperation as her hand slid out of his. She continued to walk, wishing she had more time to talk to him.
“I’ll miss you too,” Marshall called. “Take care.”
She didn’t catch the full meaning of his last words until she was suddenly caught around the waist and lifted off her feet. Lawrence had swooped in and snatched her as she reached the edge of the platform. She would have dropped three feet to jagged gravel if Lawrence hadn’t had the presence of mind to stop her.
“Alex, are you all right?” Flossie called as she hurried to the edge of the platform.
“I don’t know,” Alex replied, more honest than she’d been in ages. She glanced at the train as it sped away and turned a corner. “I don’t think I’ll know until they come home.”
* * *
There’s much more of Season Two of The Brynthwaite Boys to come! The story continues in December, just in time for Christmas, with Part Two… Can Marshall win custody of his girls? Will Alexandra make peace with her new life and fall in love with Marshall, or will George Fretwell return to ruin everything? Can Lawrence stop Hoag from coming after Matty and her siblings? Will Jason be able to cope without Flossie, or will Lady E drive a final wedge between them? Find out all of this and more!
If you’d like to read even more about the town of Brynthwaite, but fifteen years earlier than this serial, check out May Mistakes, part of The Silver Foxes of Westminster series, and its accompanying novellas, Brynthwaite Promise and Brynthwaite Summer!
About the Author
I hope you have enjoyed The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two – Part One. If you’d like to be the first to learn about when the next books in the series come out and more, please sign up for my newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/RQ-KX And remember, Read it, Review it, Share it!
Merry Farmer is an award-winning novelist who lives in suburban Philadelphia with her two cats, Butterfly and Torpedo. She has been writing since she was ten years old and realized one day that she didn't have to wait for the teacher to assign a creative writing project to write something. It was the best day of her life. She then went on to earn not one but two degrees in History so that she would always have something to write about. Her books have topped the Amazon and iBooks charts and finalled in the prestigious RONE and Rom Com Reader’s Crown awards.
Click here for a complete list of works by Merry Farmer
Acknowledgments
Thanks so much to all of my marvelous readers who have encouraged me to write The Brynthwaite Boys. I sometimes feel like I have a very weird imagination, but things like satyriasis and amnesia actually do happen! So why not torture a few characters with them along the way?
Thanks also to my amazing friend, assistant, and editor, but mostly friend, Julia Tague for everything she does to help me out and keep me sane.
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