The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part Two

by Merry Farmer

  “They are,” Marshall answered, the light of pride in his eyes. “Though that very thing is what worries me sometimes, particularly with Mary.”

  “Mary is redoubtable,” Alex agreed.

  Marshall shook his head. “She’s just a child. She should be a child.” He sighed. “I’m terrified that I’ve let her grow up too soon.”

  “No, you’ve done a fine job” She reached across the table to rest her hand over his.

  He jerked as if she’d given him an electric shock. A flash of embarrassment shot through her and she withdrew her hand.

  Marshall took a breath. “I’ve received several letters from Clara’s sister, Eileen.”

  “The one from the funeral?” Alex’s back went straight. She had disliked that woman on sight.

  Marshall nodded. “She wants the girls to go to London for a visit. She claims it would be good for them and a rest for me.”

  Alex reacted with suspicion. Judging from the frank expression in Marshall’s eyes as he looked up at her, he felt the same way.

  “I would send them,” he admitted. “I do feel as though I could use a bit of a break—not from them, just from….” He took in a breath and went on. “The problem is, I fear that if I let them go, the visit will become permanent.”

  Alex frowned. “You wouldn’t give up your girls, would you?”

  “Never,” he insisted. The intensity in his eyes underscored just how true that one word was. “But my fear is that if I let them go, Clara’s family would refuse to send them back. I’m not sure I’d be able to leave the hospital long enough to fetch them home, and even if I did go to London, I’m not entirely certain that family would willingly relinquish them.”

  “How awful.”

  He made a face to let her know she couldn’t imagine just how awful it would be. “They’re not going to let the matter go, though,” he said with a sigh. “Clara’s family is knee-deep in the law. Her father and half of her brothers are solicitors. I fear that they will try to mount some sort of a legal case to take the girls away from me.”

  “Can they do that?” Alex was horrified.

  Marshall shook his head, sitting back and crossing his arms. “I don’t know. But if they feel they can, I’m not sure I can stop it.”

  The anger that welled up in Alex was nothing short of fury. “Whatever it takes, I will help you with this,” she said. “My opinion may not mean much, but my family has a name. I’m certain Elizabeth would get involved on your behalf too if I asked her.”

  Marshall’s eyes widened in alarm. “Let’s not call out the Cumbrian cavalry until we absolutely need to, Dr. Dyson. I’m not certain anything will come of it at all.”

  “But you have a suspicion,” she said.

  He let out a breath and nodded. The weary sadness that enveloped him tugged hard at Alex’s heart. This man sitting across the table from her had had a hard life, and he’d done more to support her in just a short time than half or more of the people who had called themselves friends or family in her life. She vowed to herself that she would do whatever it took to support him in every way possible.

  They finished their lunch and left the dishes for the kitchen porter to clean up, then headed back to work. There was never a lack of anything to do in the hospital, and before long, they were up to their necks in rounds on the wards.

  “How is that young woman, Matty, who your friend Lawrence took in doing?” Alex asked as they went.

  Marshall quirked an odd grin at her over his shoulder as they moved to the next bed on the men’s ward. “Oh, I think Lawrence is taking quite good care of her.”

  “Is he?”

  “Judging by the smiles I’ve seen on the woman’s face, yes.” Judging by the wry expression Marshall wore, there was little doubt in Alex’s mind what he meant by ‘taking good care.’

  “Really?” she said, pressing a hand to her stomach without realizing it. “Well.”

  “I’ve never known Lawrence to care a fig for the rules of propriety,” Marshall went on, taking the chart from a Mr. Porter’s bedside. “He does what he wants, when he wants to do it, and pays no regard for the consequences.”

  “Would that we could all live so free,” Alex laughed.

  Marshall glanced at her over his shoulder. For the space of half a second, Alex could have sworn that the spark in his eye was every bit as carnal as the doings of Lawrence Smith. It was gone in a flash, though.

  “Dr. Dyson, Dr. Dyson,” Simon came barreling into the room, all arms and legs. “You’re wanted at once.”

  “Wanted?” Alex frowned and stepped away from the bed.

  By the time she made it halfway down the ward, a boy in the Huntingdon Hall livery pushed his way into the ward behind Simon. Alex’s heart sank.

  “Lady Alexandra, your mother needs you at the Hall this instant,” the boy delivered his message with all the importance of a royal herald.

  “Can’t you tell her I’m busy? She can’t tug me to and fro all day, like a puppy on a string, you know.” It was churlish of her to take her frustration out on the young footman, but her mother was as trying as they came.

  “She said to tell you that the Fretwells have just arrived.”

  Alex’s heart stopped in her chest and her throat squeezed. She had a hard time catching her breath. George. Here. Oh dear.

  “Tell…tell Mother I’ll be up directly,” she said in a voice haunted by the folly of her past.

  As soon as the boy left, she stood where she was, wringing her hands. George Fretwell. This was it. She could stay where she was and hide like a coward, or she could go up to the Hall and meet him like the fighter she was.

  “Something wrong?” Marshall asked.

  She hadn’t been aware of him walking up to her side. The steadiness of his presence calmed her nerves, even if he frowned at her with a look that would send a lesser man quivering in their boots.

  “Mother needs be back at the Hall,” she said.

  “I thought you would rather be here.” His eyes bored into her, testing.

  Was she a coward for staying at the hospital or was she doing her duty? Would running off to the Hall be abandoning her friend in his time of need or would it be facing the past she was ready to put to bed?

  “I would,” she said, pressing her hands to her stomach. “It’s just that the Fretwells have arrived. They are the only people invited to this whole silly escapade that I know. I…I should be there.” She ended her excuse by lowering her eyes.

  The silence between them was prickly. It went on too long. At last, Marshall said, “Go. The surgery is done and it’s just business as usual here for the rest of the day. Go meet your friends.”

  Relief at having the decision made for her poured down Alex’s back. “Thank you,” she said, giving Marshall her most grateful smile. She turned to go. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “I know you will,” she heard Marshall say as she zipped around the corner and down to the dispensary to remove her apron.

  The walk back to Huntingdon Hall seemed to take forever. Each step sent a sharper and sharper flutter through Alex’s gut. Would George look the same as he had last year in Hampshire? Would his voice be just as sweet and seductive? Did he still care two figs about her, and what was more important, did she care a wit for him? She didn’t know. No answers were forthcoming. She marched on, determined to beat the butterflies that coalesced in her stomach, determined to stand up for herself against silly feminine nothings.

  The Hall was far noisier when she arrived back in the garden than it had been when she had left that morning. Footmen were serving tea on the lawn, so rather than go through the house, Alex steeled her courage and circled around to join the party directly. She hoped and prayed that she would have at least a moment to compose herself and steady her feelings before being faced with George. She hoped.

  “Ah, Alexandra, you’re home.” Her mother spotted her the moment she crossed into the garden. “Look who’s come to see you.”
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br />   He turned toward her and their eyes met. Deep, blue eyes that could stare into your soul. Golden hair touched by the sun. A strong face and lips that could drink the nectar from the very core of one’s soul. Broad shoulders and slender hips that begged to have arms wrapped around them. George.

  “Alexandra,” he said.

  One word. One single word, and she felt her whole world tip off its axis.

  Polly

  Polly Penrose had learned two very important things early on in her life. The first was that people loved to talk, particularly about other people. The second was that knowledge was power. It was just her luck that these two gems of wisdom went hand in hand, and that she had the kind of pretty, innocent face that invited confidences.

  “And did you see the way those poor children looked up to that woman?” Miss Garrett was already chattering to Mrs. Norman, the owner of Brynthwaite’s premier haberdashery, when Polly slipped through the front door. “Dr. Pycroft can’t know that those children are spending their time with such a woman.”

  “I’m sure he does know,” Mrs. Norman said, “though I can’t imagine that he has time to check such behavior.”

  “The woman claims to have no memory of her past,” Miss Garrett went on, “but I don’t see how that’s possible. How can one simply forget who they are?”

  “They can’t, if you ask me.” Mrs. Norman leaned over the counter to Miss Garrett. Polly tip-toed up behind her. “I believe that that woman knows exactly who she is, she’s just unwilling to tell anyone. She knows it would cause a major scandal.”

  “More major than she’s already caused?” Miss Garrett asked. “For we all know that what goes on at the blacksmith forge is wicked in the extreme.

  It may have been wicked, but both women’s eyes were alight with excitement.

  “The woman is sharing that man’s bed, there’s no doubt about it,” Miss Garrett went on. “Lucy Harper had it from Belinda Frank that when Belinda’s brother was on his way home from Kendal the other night, he heard the most shocking sounds coming from the room above the forge.”

  Mrs. Norman gasped and shook her head. “No doubt the two of them engage in the most deprived of pagan acts,” she said, “for we’ve all known for years that Lawrence Smith is a shameless sorcerer.”

  “He calls it practicing the old ways, but we all know what that means,” Miss Garrett agreed. “Wicked to the core.”

  And yet, Polly noted, both woman blushed with pleasure at the thought of handsome, wicked Lawrence Smith. They were both breathing in shallow gasps and licking their lips.

  “Everybody believes he’s the spawn of gypsies,” Mrs. Norman said. “No doubt this woman is one of them as well. In fact, I would be willing to stake my store that the two of them are plotting to steal the Pycroft children away in the night to sell them as slaves in the orient.”

  “Oh my.” Miss Garrett pressed a hand to her chest.

  “Lawrence Smith is one of Marshall Pycroft’s closest friends,” Polly slipped in with a tidbit that would, she hoped, spin the story in another circle. “They grew up together as brothers.”

  “True.” Mrs. Norman nodded. She shifted to include Polly in the conversation. “And Dr. Pycroft is as dark as Mr. Smith in his coloring.”

  “Do you think he was left by gypsies as well?” Polly suggested. That would make an interesting addition to that story.

  “Perhaps,” Mrs. Norman said, the light of imagination in her eyes. “And poor, dear Clara. She was not two weeks gone and Dr. Pycroft was seen dancing at the hotel ball.”

  “With that strange woman doctor who ran to help him when Clara was struck,” Miss Garrett added, standing straighter.

  “You don’t think….” Polly prompted.

  The two women looked at her.

  “No,” Mrs. Norman gasped. “But why would Pycroft want his wife dead?”

  Polly hid her smirk. That had been too easy. There was no sport in it at all.

  “She did harangue him in public, poor Clara,” Miss Garrett said.

  “But he never seemed to take it too much to heart,” Mrs. Norman said, disappointed. Her spirits lifted a moment later. “Until that female doctor came to town.”

  “How unusual,” Polly said. “Two yards of blue ribbon please, Mrs. Norman,” she added with a cheery smile, batting her eyelashes.

  “Of course, dear.”

  Mrs. Norman turned to fetch and cut the ribbon. Miss Garrett turned to study Polly.

  “That female doctor is your Lady Elizabeth’s cousin, isn’t she?” she asked.

  “She is,” Polly said. “Though the two of them are nothing alike.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Miss Garrett replied. “Lady Elizabeth is so graceful and dignified, while her cousin is so blunt and stand-offish.”

  “She hasn’t been into my shop to look at a single one of the new season’s hats,” Mrs. Norman added as if it was the worst condemnation of all.

  “Lady Alexandra isn’t interested in such things,” Polly said.

  “Which shows a glaring lack of character, if you ask me,” Mrs. Norman sniffed.

  “She prefers to spend her time at the hospital.” Polly fed another stick of kindling into the fire, waiting to see what would happen.

  “Hmm.” Miss Garrett tapped her lips with one slender, gloved finger. “What lure could the hospital have that fine society lacks?”

  Mrs. Norman arched her brow. “A newly widowed doctor, perhaps?” She handed the roll of ribbon across to Polly. “Shall I put that on Lady Elizabeth’s account?”

  “Yes, please do. And thank you, Mrs. Norman,” Polly said as graciously as possible.

  “I have seen Dr. Pycroft and that woman in consultation with each other outside of the hospital a time or two,” Miss Garrett went on as Polly left. “Close consultation.”

  With a wide grin, Polly stepped out onto the street and headed up the road toward the hotel. She was forced to stop at the corner of the terrible intersection Elizabeth hated so much. Lucky for her, Mrs. Crimpley and Mrs. Cavanaugh were stopped as well.

  “I can’t imagine who could have done such a thing,” Mrs. Crimpley was saying, wringing her hands in distress. “My lilies. My June lilies. All gone. Plucked away in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes, the deer have been merciless this spring,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said.

  “Oh,” Polly exclaimed over top of her. “How odd.” The two women glanced to her, confused and questioning. “It’s just that Miss Garrett was only now bragging to Mrs. Norman about the lilies in her garden.”

  “Was she?” Mrs. Cavanaugh blinked fast.

  “Yes,” Polly said, “though I don’t recall having seen anything of the sort when I was passing by her house just last week. Her lilies must have been a new acquisition. They were the most charming June lilies I’ve ever seen.”

  “Were they?” Mrs. Crimpley asked breathlessly. She turned to frown over her shoulder to where Miss Garrett was coming out of the shop.

  The street cleared, and Polly skipped her way across, picking up her pace on the other side of Lake Street. The hotel was only a hundred yards along or so, and she walked through the grand gate and into the lavish front garden without attracting notice.

  The garden around The Dragon’s Head was a confection the likes of which Brynthwaite had never seen before. She loved her place at Huntingdon Hall, but there were times that she considered Flossie the truly lucky one. She had full access to this garden of wonder whenever she wanted. It was a shame that her errand would take her into the hotel itself.

  Not that the hotel was shabby by any means. In fact, as she danced up the stairs and into the lobby, part of her wished she could take of her shoes and feel the coolness of the white marble beneath her feet. She’d heard from Elizabeth that Jason Throckmorton had designed and decorated the hotel himself, with the help of an architect in London who was his business partner. Few things impressed her about the rougher sex, but she did admire Mr. Throckmorton’s sense of the grandiose.
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  “Is Flossie free for a walk?” Polly asked the concierge at the front desk.

  The man, Samuel, sneered at her. Now there was a puffed-up jackanapes if ever there was one. If he tipped his nose up to look down at her any further, he would drown when it rained. Wouldn’t she love to take that one down a notch or two.

  “Miss High and Mighty is otherwise engaged,” Samuel told her, sour to the core.

  Well. Interesting. “What is she doing?” Polly asked.

  “Putting on airs, getting above herself, and cuddling into the boss’s pocket,” Samuel told her, smiling like a fox. “I’ll tell her you dropped by.” He turned away and added, “Oh. No I won’t.”

  Flossie chose that moment to pop her head out of the door to the office behind the desk.

  “Polly, is that you?”

  “It is. I thought you’d like to go on a walk, if you have a moment,” she said, ignoring the horrible Samuel.

  Flossie pursed her lips and looked over her shoulder into the office. “I’m just finishing up a project for Mr. Throckmorton. Can you give me ten minutes?”

  “Certainly,” Polly smiled. “I’ll just go wait in the hotel’s splendid gardens.”

  “Thank you. I’ll come find you when I’m finished.”

  Flossie disappeared into the office. Samuel clenched his jaw so hard his teeth should have shattered. Polly pretended to ignore him and headed for the front door. She stole a last look at the disagreeable man once she was there. Green with envy, he was. Wounded pride and blistered masculinity. Flossie had better be careful of that one. He glanced at the office door with a look that could have burnt it to the ground.

  There was more to see in the garden than simply the arrangement of flowers and shrubs. Polly made a quick circuit of the premises, searching for the perfect spot to wait and watch. In his genius, Mr. Throckmorton had designed a low bench along a bed of roses that were growing high enough to partially conceal anyone who might be sitting there. It was the perfect corner for a lover’s tryst. Interesting that so wicked and mercenary a man had thought to create it.