by Merry Farmer
“I’ll go,” Flossie offered, voice and jaw stiff.
Mouth hanging open with a lost reply, Jason glanced to her. She did not look pleased. In fact, she looked rather like Mrs. Garforth had looked when he was a boy and had done something particularly deserving of a lecture and a smack on the backside.
“Would you?” he asked, far too much tenderness seeping into his question.
Flossie let out a breath and nodded. She didn’t look happy, but she rushed to return her clipboard to the front desk and to hurry with the porter out the front door.
Unfortunately, her act of friendship left Jason alone with Lady E.
“It’s a bit late, but I’m sure your cook wouldn’t mind putting together a grand breakfast for us,” she said, looping her arm through his and marching him across the lobby and into the dining room. “Crepes with fresh fruit, coffee, and sausages ought to do the trick,” she said to one of the maids as they passed near her.
“Wha— I—” the maid, Dora, who clearly had other chores to be about, stammered.
Jason closed his eyes and nodded to her with a weary sigh. Dora changed direction and headed to the kitchen.
As soon as Dora was gone, Lady E. swayed closer, hugging Jason’s entire arm and leaning into him with a throaty laugh. “This will be such a treat—breakfasting at your house.”
Jason cleared his throat, his skin crawling with pins and needles, blood pumping hard to all the wrong places. Every part of him was in pain, and yet the old, all-too-familiar urge to do any variety of dirty things with Lady E. threatened to swallow him. A thousand terrible memories—compulsions that had driven him to commit depraved acts, the sickly-sweet satisfaction that those acts had brought him, however fleeting—pricked at him, whispering their siren songs.
“It’s a hotel, not my house,” he managed to squeeze out at last.
Lady E. tittered with laughter, sliding her hand down his arm to hold his hand. Jason hardly noticed, the anguish of his memories was so potent. He nearly wept in relief when she broke away from him and let him sit at a small, circular table near one of the tall windows looking out to the back garden. She made such a pretty picture when she seated herself opposite him, resting a coquettish elbow on the table and posing with her hand under her perfect, pointed chin that Jason’s dizziness returned.
“You cut quite a grand figure at the house party’s closing ball last night,” she told him, brushing a curling strand of her golden hair behind her ear, no doubt in a deliberate move to show off the grace of her long neck.
“I didn’t notice,” he said, glancing out the window. His garden staff was hard at work with the morning’s weeding. It would have been a relief to get out there in the cool, fresh air to engage in manual labor with them. Perhaps Flossie could suggest he become a gardener for a day as one of her tasks for him.
“It was quite an event, was it not?” Lady E. went on. “Between George Fretwell and Arabella Richmond announcing their engagement and Aunt Charlotte and Anthony Fretwell all but announcing theirs.”
“Mmm, yes,” Jason answered, wincing. He would have to send that bellboy, Frank, down to the hospital to fetch something stronger than a regular headache powder if this sort of pain kept up.
But no, Marshall wasn’t at the hospital. His girls had been taken. There had to be something he could—
“I was particularly hoping that there would be other engagements announced by now.” Lady E. interrupted his thoughts by reaching across the table to lay her gloved hand over his.
It took Jason a moment of blinking to clear his head enough to hear what she’d said. By that point, she’d already moved on.
“I was able to finagle you an invitation to Lady Hallowell’s musicale next week,” she said.
Jason blinked at her, trying to keep up. “What’s a musicale and why would I want to go to one?”
Lady E. laughed, like breaking glass. “It’s nothing more than an excuse for a few untalented relatives to torture the rest of us with under-rehearsed songs. But these sorts of events are very well-attended and allow for connections to be forged. Important connections. Business connections.” She grinned and leaned forward. “Sir Roger Balfour will be there.”
“Balfour?” Jason frowned. Balfour was a member of parliament, involved in all of the country’s economic planning. One conversation with him could provide a wealth of information, not to mention allowing Jason to share some of his thoughts on policies that could positively affect business. It was the chance of a lifetime. “I’m not certain what my calendar looks like next week.”
“You’ll be free.” Lady E. beamed. “If you know what’s good for you.” She phrased it as a joke, giggling, then leaning back in her chair when Dora returned with a tray of coffee.
Jason could only sit there and gape at her. He didn’t know what was good for him. He never had.
Flossie did.
There was barely time to latch onto that thought before Lady E. sped on with, “And next Thursday, we are invited to the Gilchrest’s ball.”
“Gilchrest?” Jason blinked. “Who’s that.” Another pause, and he added, “We?”
Lady E. shrugged. “Yes, well, technically I, but Emmeline Gilchrest understands that you are part of the package these days.” She sent him a coy smile from under her golden lashes, then took a sip of her coffee.
Jason reached for his cup, but he couldn’t have forced anything down his throat if he’d tried. Oh no, forcing things down his throat was apparently Lady E.’s job now. Still, he went through the motions of spooning sugar into his cup and bringing it to his lips, feigning taking a drink.
“Also, I’ve decided to host another boating party next Sunday. Do you think you could arrange things the way you did for the house party?” she went on.
Jason lowered his shaking cup to its saucer. He was too hot for coffee anyhow. “Flossie made all the arrangements before.”
“Ah. Flossie.” Lady E. lowered her eyes, her lips tight.
Yes, Flossie. Flossie who was angry with him, but had still rushed off on his behalf to help a friend. Flossie who never asked more from him than a smile, a whispered word, and, well, nights of passion that left the both of them worn out but so blissfully happy.
Forget musicales and balls, soirees and boating parties. Jason would have given anything to steal away to a moss-covered cabin in the woods with Flossie—like Mother Grace’s, secret and difficult to find. He would have poked out his eye if it meant he could stroll down a cool, sunlit beach with her—barefoot, with sand pressing up through his toes, her hand in his. She could let her hair down, let it float in the sea breeze. They wouldn’t have to bow to pretense. They could just be, the two of them, no one to judge or condemn them.
“Jason. Jason? Mr. Throckmorton.”
With a sharp intake of breath, Jason snapped himself out of his thoughts. The effort left him reeling and off-balance. He gripped the table to steady himself. More sleep was a must. If he could get a nap later….
“Jason, are you quite all right?” Lady E.’s eyes were full of concern. She’d clasped a hand over his on the table. “You seem pale and a bit out of sorts.”
“Too many late nights,” he said and pulled his hand away from hers to feign drinking his coffee once more.
Lady E. laughed. “Late nights are something you must get used to if you plan to travel in the highest circles of society. And believe me, my dear, if you travel with me, you will have access to the highest of the high.”
He was on the edge of asking her what she meant when Flossie rushed into the room. All at once, every ounce of his attention fled to her.
“Well?” he asked, pushing his chair away from the table. As soon as he saw the bulge that even his coat couldn’t hide, he chose to remain seated instead of standing.
“He’s gone after them,” Flossie reported, out of breath. She must have rushed all the way to and back from the station. “Took the next train so that he could catch up.”
“Poor Marshall.�
� His heart bled for his friend, but a wash of weakness, helplessness overcame him. “I’ll telegraph London to make sure someone is there to receive him and to help.”
He attempted to stand, but Lady E. caught him. “Where are you going? They haven’t even brought our crepes yet.”
Trapped as if her hand had been an iron cage and not flesh and bone sheathed in lace, Jason slumped in his chair. He wasn’t certain he had the energy to stand in that moment.
Flossie clenched her jaw, her frown as sharp as diamonds as she worked to keep her expression neutral for Lady E. “I’ll see to it,” she said, then turned to march out of the room.
“My,” Lady E. exclaimed, letting Jason’s hand go and pressing her gloved one to her chest. “Flossie seems to be in a bit of a snit today. What do you think could have gotten into her? A tiff with a beau, perhaps?”
For a moment, just a hint of something sinister flashed in Lady E.’s eyes. As though she was playing chess and believed she had made a particularly cunning move. The flush that came to her cheeks would have been disarmingly beautiful, if not for that hint of hardness in her eyes.
He blinked through the soup of his muddled, fuzzy thoughts, and slumped in his chair. “Flossie doesn’t have a beau.” Which was, of course, a bald-faced lie.
Lady E. laughed that deep, throaty laugh of hers that made the hair stand up on the back of Jason’s neck. “Oh, I think she does,” she said.
She knew the truth. At least she might. Or not? Jason’s mind was too fuzzy to make it out. He needed sleep. Sleep and a headache powder. And something to take the god-awful ache out of his back and limbs.
“Sir.” This time it was Samuel who interrupted them, marching into the dining room with a grim expression.
“What?” Jason barked.
Samuel ignored his testiness. “Sir, we have a problem with…with the bookings.”
“The bookings?” Jason blinked. “Why come to me? That’s Flossie’s realm.”
“Is it?” Lady E. sat back in surprise.
“Thinks she runs the whole damn hotel,” Samuel grumbled. At least, Jason thought Samuel said it. It might have been his imagination.
“Flossie’s gone to send a telegram,” Samuel went on.
Jason blinked, swallowed. “What’s the problem then?”
“It seems that there is a Mr. Sparkman in room 24. He was meant to check out this morning, but when he didn’t, I sent one of the porters to check on him. Unfortunately, Mr. Sparkman appears to be ill. It appears as though he has influenza.”
“Influenza?” Lady E. balked.
There was no dodging responsibility now. Jason pushed his chair back and stood—awkwardly, so that his coat covered the evidence of how badly his world was spinning out of control. The simple gesture took more than a little effort and left him sweating and light-headed.
“We have another guest waiting to occupy room 24,” Samuel went on, walking with Jason through the dining room. “But if Mr. Sparkman is too ill to vacate…. I don’t know what to do.”
“Mr. Sparkman should be taken to the hospital,” Jason said, though at that moment he couldn’t work out how to get him there. Thinking had never been such a challenge. “Damn,” he hissed. “Bloody hell.” The day was turning into far more of a challenge than he had bargained for, and until he was able to do something about his headache, his body pain, and Flossie’s anger, he wouldn’t be able to get the rest he so desperately needed.
Alexandra
Noon sunlight streamed through a sliver of a gap in Alex’s curtains like an arrow piercing the shock of grief that enveloped her. She lay curled on her side in bed, hugging herself and the bedcovers over her. A deep hollowness filled her, expanding through her limbs, numbing her to her fingertips. Every breath was a chore. She couldn’t even close her eyes for fear of reliving the torture of the night before.
The final ball of the house party was filled with bright lights, high spirits, and gaiety. Alex’s mother and Anthony Fretwell had danced a scandalous number of dances together, then sat talking in a corner, far too close for people their age. Elizabeth had flitted and flirted her way through the crowd, Mr. Throckmorton on her arm like a prize she’d acquired and intended to show off. Mayor Crimpley had puffed himself up, bragging about some grand scandal that was about to break and a brilliant bit of maneuvering on his part that would bring him county-wide recognition.
For the briefest of moments, Alex’s heart had soared high with hope as George had danced a waltz with her. George was happy, expressive. He’d held her close, his eyes flashing with heat and mischief. For just one heartbeat, Alex had been convinced all would be well, Lady Arabella had been forgotten, and her path to winning George back was clear.
Then came the announcement at midnight.
Her mother and Anthony silenced the band and then the guests. George broke away from Alex without a word and sought out Lady Arabella. By the time he found her, took her hand, and led her to the front of the room where his father was, the world was already falling apart.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anthony Fretwell said. “It gives me great joy tonight to announce the forthcoming nuptials between my son, George, and the lovely and incomparable Lady Arabella.”
The room burst into applause. Alex’s heart shattered to dust. She could do nothing but stand there and gape as George clasped Lady Arabella’s hand, then took center stage. Alex couldn’t remember if he had said only a few words or made an entire speech about how dearly he loved Arabella, how there had never been another woman for him but her, and how they had been destined for each other from the first moment they met. Alex was glued to the spot as she watched him take Arabella into his arms and kiss her soundly. It was unthinkable for a public showing, but the party guests had hummed their approval and applauded all the same.
Alex had fled from the room at the soonest possible moment. She managed to keep a polite smile plastered on her face until she was far from the congratulatory crowd. It was a victory and a miracle that she’d managed to prevent herself from bursting into tears until she was in her own room, sliding down the wall, hands pressed to her mouth and her stomach as she crumpled to a ball.
Her tears flowed anew as she lay in bed, fixated on the spear of sunlight invading her room. The sharpness of her pain was gone, replaced by a thick, heavy fog of numbness. It was over. George was gone. He had used her and discarded her like so much refuse. He had taken more from her than just her virginity, he had taken her pride.
A soft knock at her door was followed by the sound of the door opening and footfalls on the carpet. Alex debated raising her head to look, caught up on the desperate hope that perhaps it was her mother, coming to check on her.
“It’s noon, Lady Alexandra,” Polly’s gentle voice came instead.
Alex’s heart flopped and withered all over again. Of course her mother wouldn’t come to comfort her. Her mother was too happy to care. She had her reward, what did she need with her daughter?
Polly came closer, sitting boldly on the side of Alex’s bed, hands folded in her lap, pretty face painted with sympathy. Alex was willing to bet that men never threw sweet Polly over.
“Would you like to get up now?” Polly asked, so soft, so compassionate. She rested a hand on the bedcovers, on the lump of Alex’s curled body. “It’s a beautiful, sunny day. The rain is gone,” Polly went on. “Most of the guests have left already.”
Alex squirmed under the covers, but the movement wasn’t designed to accomplish anything beyond stretching her aching muscles and press her face into her pillow. Polly scooted closer to her, rubbing her back through the coverlet. Alex had deliberately eschewed a maid when she moved into Huntingdon Hall, but in that moment, she was grateful Elizabeth’s maid had thought to attend to her. At least someone had.
“Lady Arabella has gone,” she said.
Alex squeezed her eyes tight. So Polly knew. But of course, Polly knew everything.
“George Fretwell is not in the house at the moment,” P
olly continued. “He and his father have been moved to another wing of the house. Lady Elizabeth deemed it appropriate now that the space is available, especially considering certain connections.”
Another tear escaped from Alex’s eyes as she stifled a sob. So Elizabeth knew all as well.
“I’ve prepared a mixture of rosewater and cucumber,” Polly told her, continuing to rub Alex’s back. It was soothing. “It will help the swelling around your eyes.”
Alex let out a sigh. She must look a fright. Another reason to stay in bed. She was hideous. No one would ever want her.
A second knock at the door stopped the downward spiral of her thoughts before they could rage out of control. She half lifted herself on one arm, brow raised in hope. “Mother?”
The door didn’t open, and when Polly stood to answer it, it was only a maid, Iris. Iris wore an anxious look and handed a note to Polly, then curtsied.
“If you please, Miss Polly,” Iris said. “This was delivered by that young man from the hospital, Simon. He was awful upset. He’s downstairs now, waiting for a reply. He wants Lady Alexandra to come.”
Polly frowned. “Wait here.” She shut the door, frowning over the note. She turned it over and nearly opened it before remembering her place and bringing it to Alex.
Alex sat up, muscles aching, and leaned against her headboard as she took the note. It was in Mrs. Garforth’s handwriting.
“Dr. Dyson. You are needed urgently at the hospital. Eight cases of influenza have come in since nine this morning with more reporting every minute. Dr. Pycroft is not here. We need your assistance immediately.”
A surge of energy pushed through Alex like a storm front. The note contained none of Mrs. Garforth’s usual haranguing and scolding. Eight cases of influenza in three hour. She had been aware of an outbreak elsewhere in the county, had treated the few already in Brynthwaite, but her mind had been occupied elsewhere. And where was Marshall?
