The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part Three

by Merry Farmer

  “Samuel,” she approached her last and most reluctant mission with an internal grimace. “Do you think that you can handle the business of the hotel for a few days?”

  “Yes,” he answered without hesitation before Flossie had fully reached the front desk. “Why?”

  There was no point in hiding what he would know within a few hours. “I believe I’m falling ill. I suspect I’ll need to go to bed for a while.”

  A sly smirk twisted the corner of his mouth. “Going to bed. So typical of you. At least I know how you wheedled your way into the boss’s good graces now.”

  Flossie sighed and rubbed her forehead. Samuel hadn’t been the only one of the staff to assume the most lascivious motives for her relationship with Jason, but he certainly was the loudest.

  “Mr. Throckmorton is well on the way to recovery and should be on his feet again in a few days,” she said.

  “Of course, you prefer him off his feet, don’t you?” Samuel hurled at her. “And you on your back.”

  “Can you handle running the hotel or not?”

  His smirk didn’t let up. “Oh, I can handle it,” he said. “But not the way you handle it.” He leaned across the front desk and whispered, “Maybe you could come back here and handle mine for a while. Do you just use your hands or do you swallow for the boss as well?”

  Jaw tight, Flossie turned her back on Samuel and marched away from the desk without dignifying his insult with a response. It would be a blessed relief to tuck herself away in bed for a few days to get away from Samuel’s brand of gossip.

  That half-hearted feeling of relief was squelched entirely as Flossie neared the hotel’s front door at the same time as Lady E. waltzed through.

  “Oh. Flossie. How fortuitous that our paths have crossed so easily,” Lady E. greeted her.

  Flossie fought to bring a benign smile to her face when what she truly wanted to do was huff in frustration and bolt up the stairs. “Lady Elizabeth.” She curtsied instead.

  “I’ve brought these lemon drops for Jason,” she said, lifting a plain brown paper bag in her hands.

  “Lemon drops, my lady?” Flossie questioned her.

  “Yes, well, I’ve been told that influenza brings a sore throat and coughing, and I have always found that a few sucks on a lemon candy does wonders for the throat.”

  Behind them, Samuel snorted. Both women turned to stare at him, Lady E. quizzically, Flossie dismissively. Samuel schooled his face to a mask of neutrality and turned to help the gentleman who approached the desk from the dining room.

  “So if you don’t mind,” Lady E. went on, ignoring the interruption and stepping toward the stairs, “I’ll just take these up to Jason.”

  “No,” Flossie snapped and reached out to tug Lady E. back before she had gone two steps.

  Lady E.’s brow flew up and she stumbled to face Flossie.

  The ache in Flossie’s head seemed to grow more pronounced with the aggravation that Lady E. presented. “That is to say, my lady,” she corrected herself in a gentler tone, “Mr. Throckmorton is still quite ill and not receiving visitors.”

  “I see.” Lady E. glanced from the stairs to the bag of sweets in her hand to Flossie. “My cousin, Dr. Dyson, informed me this morning at breakfast that she believed he was on the mend and would be ready for visitors soon.”

  So Lady E. had inside information after all. She had likely gone out of her way to ask, gathering knowledge like a spy.

  Flossie smiled. “Soon,” she said, “but not just yet.”

  Lady E. pressed her lips together, her fingers tightening around the bag of sweets. “Do you know when you can expect him to be receiving visitors?”

  There was too much sharpness in Lady E.’s eyes, too much calculation. Whether she knew the truth or not, her designs on Jason hadn’t changed. That knowledge, coupled with the exchange she and Jason had had that morning, filled Flossie’s bones with steel.

  “It is difficult to say, my lady,” Flossie told her, back straight, chin high, determination tinting her words. “Mr. Throckmorton has been very ill indeed. He is in need of peace and quiet.”

  “Which he is finding in his room,” Lady E. said. “Upstairs. Behind lock and key. Which you control.”

  Flossie’s eyebrow twitched before she could stop it. “I have been seeing to Mr. Throckmorton’s needs, yes.”

  Lady E. smiled. Her expression filled with a new level of understanding. The spark in her eyes matched that of a grand master playing chess. There was no doubt in Flossie’s mind that the woman knew all when it came to her and Jason. But strangely, with that flash of understanding, it was clear that Lady E. no longer thought of her as a servant or a lesser mortal to be ignored and brushed aside. No, the expression that softened Lady E.’s face into the sly lines of knowing was that of a woman facing down a rival, and an equal.

  “I won’t be able to get to Jason unless I go through you, will I?” Lady E. confirmed Flossie’s suspicions with her quietly framed observation.

  “No, my lady, you will not,” Flossie answered plainly.

  “I see.” Lady E. raked her with a quick glance that took in far more than just her appearance. “We shall have to become friends then, you and I.”

  Fat chance of that happening. Flossie was certain she could never trust Lady E. as far as she could see her, but she answered, “Perhaps. Now if you will excuse me, I am feeling rather poorly myself and would like to rest to avoid a more severe case of influenza than needs be.”

  “Of course.” Lady E. nodded—the graceful nod of deference that one noblewoman would give to another. “I am sorry to hear you are ill.” She held out her bag of sweets. “Do give these to Jason, with my love. And please enjoy some yourself.”

  Flossie took the bag, eyes never leaving Lady E.’s. She had the distinct feeling that offering part of the sweets to her was not merely lip-service. It was the opening move in a brand new game.

  She nodded, then turned away, starting up the stairs before Lady E. moved. By the time Flossie reached the top of the stairs, Lady E. was still watching her. She continued to watch as Flossie made her way boldly to Jason’s door and opened it to step inside. As she did, she caught a final, triumphant smile on Lady E.’s lips, as if she had just gained a vital piece of knowledge that would prove useful.

  “You’re back awfully soon,” Jason greeted her from the sofa. He’d lifted his head enough to see her as she shut the door, but his eyelids were heavy with sleep. “Is there a problem? What’s that?” He nodded to the bag as Flossie plopped it on a side table near the door.

  “Lady E. has brought you lemon drops,” she said with a sigh. “And I am going to bed.”

  “Because Lady E. brought me lemon drops?” Jason sat up straighter, his brow knit in confusion.

  “No.” Flossie huffed a humorless laugh. “She brought lemon drops to woo you. I am going to bed because I believe I have the influenza.”

  “What?” Jason leapt off the sofa, or at least tried to before his own exhaustion slowed him down. He rushed to her as she crossed into the bedroom and started to untie her apron. “But you were right as rain just an hour ago.”

  “Actually, I’ve been feeling poorly since I woke up,” she confessed. “I assumed I would fall ill at some point, since I’ve been caring for you so closely. I’ll go to bed now, and with any luck, I’ll sleep it off before it has a chance to get bad.”

  “Flossie.” The way he said her name—with such concern and helplessness—was sweet. “Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling ill? Why did you stay so close to me if it meant you would become sick as well?”

  She finished with her apron and sat on his bed to untie her shoes. “I cared for you because I love you and wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said.

  Jason blew out a sputtering breath, raking his fingers through his hair. “But…but that’s no excuse if it means you’ll fall ill as well. I don’t want you to be ill.”

  She laughed in earnest, letting her shoes drop to the fl
oor, then standing to undo the fastenings of her dress. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Well, it should,” Jason insisted with all the impudence of a child.

  Flossie shimmied out of her dress, letting herself feel the muscle aches and impending weakness of influenza in full, and stepped closer to him. He took her dress from her and draped it over his arm, but continued to pout, worry lining his face.

  “It’s just a little flu,” she insisted, using Jason’s arm for balance as she peeled off her stockings. “A few days in bed, and I’ll be fine.”

  “But people die of influenza,” he said, low and dire.

  “You didn’t. I won’t,” Flossie insisted.

  “What will I do without you?”

  His last question was so plaintive and heart-wrenching that Flossie wrapped her arms around him to hold him close in a hug, resting her head on his shoulder. It felt so good to surrender the weight of her aching body to him that for a moment she considered staying just where she was.

  “A few hours’ sleep is all I need,” she insisted. “A day or two in bed and I’ll be back to running your hotel for you.”

  He was left speechless and anxious when she pulled away and climbed into bed. As she settled against the pillow and pulled the bedcovers up to her chin, he put her dress and stockings away. When that was done, he came to sit on the side of the bed with her.

  “Go back to the sofa and take a nap, Jason,” she directed him.

  “I want to stay with you,” he insisted.

  She smiled, already feeling the pull of sleep. She took his hand.

  “All right. But lay down with me.”

  Jason nodded and shifted into bed with her, cradling her close and draping an arm around her protectively. With her growing fever, it was too hot, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him to go away and leave her to be sick on her own.

  Instead, she closed her eyes, let out a breath, and wondered what Samuel would say to the thought of two mildly ill people napping in the middle of the day.

  It was the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made toward her.

  Marshall

  He was an absolute fool. Only a prize idiot would tell a woman he loved her in the middle of his darkest moment without any reassurance that she felt the same way. All it had taken was one pinched and panicked look from Alexandra for Marshall to see clear as day that she did not return his affections. His heart and stomach both twisted at the thought as he replayed his sorry confession over and over.

  He swatted at a forest bush as his words echoed in his head. “I have come to adore you and love you.” Absolute bollocks. He kicked at a moss-covered rock by the side of the vague path leading to Mother Grace’s, stubbing his toe in the process.

  “Bloody f—” Years of curbing his tongue in the presence of his girls kept the expletive to a long hiss as he hopped on one foot to relief the jolt of pain in his other. “Bloody hell,” he finished instead. It was typical that he would hurt himself while on a mission of mercy. He never should have let Lawrence talk him into going to the forest in the first place.

  Though if he was being honest with himself, he had needed the walk. He needed the space and the quiet, the birdsong and rustling in the undergrowth. He needed the whisper of the breeze in the treetops. All of them had been a balm to his tiny, wounded soul as a child. He couldn’t remember when he first crossed paths with Mother Grace, but he had known her before Jason and Lawrence—years before. He couldn’t have been more than five when he wandered into the woods and got lost on a winter’s day that burst into a snow shower without warning. Mother Grace had found him, picked him up and held him close, and carried him to her hidden cottage for tea and biscuits.

  Still, he was certain he had known her before that. He hadn’t been afraid when he was with her. He’d never been anxious or wary of life with Mother Grace…until he’d left Brynthwaite and returned with Clara.

  The hidden cottage with its living roof and concealing undergrowth hadn’t changed in all the years Marshall had been fleeing to it from the cares of his life. The pragmatic part of him was certain the roof must be falling apart, that it must let in the damp with all the moss and grass that grew on it. Mother Grace insisted she had cast a spell on it, which was balderdash, but there it was, dry and unchanging after all these years.

  No one was out front where the table and chairs stood, so Marshall thrust his hands into his pockets, put on a scowl, and marched into the house. It too was deserted—and dry as a bone up to the rafters—so he continued through to the back door and into the garden.

  “That’s is.” Mother Grace stood by Matty’s side as Matty worked with a mortar and pestle, crushing some bright green herb. “The trick is to make a paste with as few pieces of stem in it as possible. It will help wounds to heal faster with less chance of putrification.”

  Marshall’s scowl darkened. “If someone is wounded, they should be brought to the hospital to be given modern medical treatment, not subjected to folk remedies and potions.”

  Both women glanced up from their work, Matty in surprise and Mother Grace as if she had been expecting him all along.

  “Ah, but modern medicine was derived from ancient folk remedies,” she reminded him with one hand raised. “Whether you break it down with your precious science or trust to the intuition of those who have used plants to cure for centuries, it’s all the same.”

  “It’s not all the same,” Marshall argued. The argument had been ongoing for years. “Science allows for precision. Folk medicine relies on guesswork and fate.” And fate was not to be trusted.

  Mother Grace spread her hands and shrugged, then stepped away from the table where Matty was working. She crossed to Marshall as though gliding across a marble ballroom instead of treading with bare feet over soft grass.

  “What brings you to me so unexpectedly?” she said as she drew near.

  As ever, she opened her arms and moved to embrace him. It was a sign of how black his life was that he let her. The firmness of her arms around him, the warmth of her body and the scent of herbs and life that tickled memories of childhood seeped in around the edges of his misery.

  “Oh dear,” she said, stepping back and holding him at arm’s length. “It’s that bad, is it?”

  “I’ve come for Matty.” He avoided her question. After a moment’s hesitation, he broke away from Mother Grace and marched to the table. “Lawrence sent me.”

  “Thank God,” Matty breathed out, pressing a hand to her chest.

  “Goddess,” Mother Grace corrected.

  Marshall frowned, moustache twitching. He focused on Matty. “He hasn’t been able to come out here because he’s being watched on all sides.”

  “Yes, so he said in his letters,” Matty said. She stepped around the table to stand by Mother Grace’s side, as if she could draw strength from the strongest of women. “Jason was bringing letters, but he stopped. I’ve been worried about him.”

  “Jason has been ill. There is an epidemic of influenza in Brynthwaite. Alexa—Dr. Dyson tells me he’s on the mend now,” he added for Mother Grace’s sake.

  Mother Grace nodded. “Jason is strong as an ox. Illness will not bring him low. At least not for long.”

  There was one thing Marshall and Mother Grace could agree on. He turned back to Matty. “I’m afraid your situation grows more perilous with every day. The solicitor, Beach, is working hard to find evidence that would help with the murder case, but he hasn’t found much yet.”

  “Lawrence’s last letter was hopeful.” Matty pressed her hand to her abdomen as she spoke.

  The gesture was surprisingly familiar to Marshall. He’d seen Clara rub her abdomen in the same way three times before. Four if he counted the babe she’d miscarried. It didn’t take a physician to guess that Matty was with child.

  Bloody hell.

  Marshall took a breath and pushed on. “Have you heard about the fires?”

  Matty lowered her head in shame. Mother Grace touched her arm a
nd shook her head. “It’s not your fault, dear. The man is deranged.”

  Blast it, but there was another thing he and Mother Grace agreed on. The similarity of their thinking filled Marshall with ire.

  “You need to leave the forest and turn yourself in to the authorities,” he blurted.

  “What?” Matty’s eyes filled with fear.

  Marshall cursed himself for speaking so bluntly. He let out a breath and shifted his posture to the way he stood when delivering a particularly bleak prognosis. “Hoag is on a rampage. He is determined to find you and destroy you and anyone who might be helping you.” He glanced to Mother Grace. “But if you turn yourself in to the law, the authorities may be able to protect you, and Hoag would have no reason to continue to burn innocent people’s cottages.”

  “But…but I would be taken to prison.” Matty clutched her hand over her abdomen. “Who knows what sort of treatment I would receive there? And if Jason’s solicitor hasn’t found anything that would help me when I stand trial…If I were to lose that trial….” She swallowed, pressing her second hand to her heart.

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Marshall said, though he was far from certain. “You are innocent. Proof of that will come to light. And besides.” He nodded to her abdomen. “Correct me if I am wrong, but even should you be found guilty, the court would delay whatever sentence you were given for several months at least.”

  Matty gasped, her cheeks flooding pink. “How do you know?”

  “I am a physician and a father,” he answered, his voice cracking on the last.

  Instantly, Matty’s expression melted from fear to commiseration. She rushed forward and took Marshall’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Where is my heart at a time like this? Lawrence’s final letter said you’d gone to London because Eileen had taken the girls.”

  Marshall nodded, wiping a hand over his face to stop himself from breaking down. “The girls remain in London with Clara’s family.” Those words were hard enough to speak. He couldn’t say more.

  “Matty, dear, why don’t you go inside and pack your things,” Mother Grace intervened. “I think that Marshall is correct when he says you will be safer in the care of the authorities instead of here with me at this point.”