by Merry Farmer
At that, Alex snapped her mouth shut and stood straighter, stunned.
“Is that all?” she asked, voice hoarse.
George glanced up, then at her. “Yes, I believe it is. Good day to you, Lady Alexandra.”
He walked away, nibbling on the last of his scone. Walked on without a second glance.
Alex stood where she was, like a decayed oak, reaching tall, but on the verge of falling over at the slightest gust of wind. It was over. The hope she’d had, the future she’d envisioned. All of it was over and gone. George had never loved her. He had used her, taken her virginity like a bandit would take a purse left unattended.
She swayed where she stood, realizing she’d been holding her breath nearly to the point of swooning. She took a deep breath and followed the motion her body had started on its own, walking across the front hall and out through the door. The secret nights she’d long to have with George were gone. The romantic courtship she’d imagined while going through her rounds at the hospital had vanished. The simple but elegant wedding she’d been daydreaming of was no more. The life, the love, the children and family—all gone before it had ever been.
The road into town was a blur as Alex stumbled along. If any of the people she passed on the way to the hospital greeted her, she didn’t remember. She could barely see past the stabbing pain in her heart. George was perfect, beautiful. He was clever. He had never condescended to her before. How could this have happened?
“Good, there you are,” Mrs. Garforth spoke to her as soon as Alex stumbled through the hospital’s front door. The waiting room was already bustling. “And early at that. Seems we’ve trained you well after all. There’s a man here that needs stitches after cutting himself in the garden, and a young woman who—oy! Where are you going, Dr. Dyson?”
Alex only barely registered Mrs. Garforth’s words or her scolding. Her feet dragged her on through the waiting room and down the hall.
“Oh, Dr. Dyson,” Nurse Stephens tried to stop her as she passed the stairs. “I was hoping I could have a word with you about young Alice in the women’s ward. She keeps trying to slip across the hall to the men, but with her infection the way it is…. Dr. Dyson?”
Alex turned the corner into Marshall’s office. She shut the door behind her, leaning to press her back against it. Her breath came in sharp gulps. The numbness from her limbs had infiltrated her whole body, only now it was turning to terrifying, drowning pain. A wail escaped from her throat before she could stop it, before she knew it was her own sound. She clapped a hand to her mouth, but that only caused the stinging in her eyes to reach unbearable levels. The room swam as tears filled her eyes. She groaned, barely holding the grief inside, and pushed away from the door.
She stumbled across the room until she hit the edge of Marshall’s desk. Another keening wail rose from her as she slumped into his chair. The leather smelled faintly of him. How could she be such a fool? How could she still love George after the things he’d said to her? How could all of this have happened?
She dropped her head to her arms on the desktop and wept from the bottom of her soul, not caring who heard her. One final question rang louder in her heart than all of the others, drowning out the thousand voices of scolding and question and desperation that clawed at her.
How could she win George back?
Marshall
Marshall took out his pocket watch to check the time as the train’s shrill whistle sounded further down the tracks. Right on time. He took a breath, slipped the watch back into the pocket of his waistcoat, and stood straighter. There was no need to panic. Everything was under control. The house was in order, the girls had been fed and bathed that morning, and he was dressed as befitted his station, coat and bowler in place. They’d managed all of it without Matty’s help. Eileen could complain all she wanted, but he and the girls knew the truth. They were fine.
Just fine.
Then why did his bowels threaten to turn to water as the train drew closer, chugging to a stop. The screech of the brakes—metal tearing against metal—was an excuse for his teeth to be set on edge. He knew better than that. It only took one woman for the careful balance he’d created for his family to be fatally upset.
The train slowed and slowed until it reached its resting place. With a final sharp puff of steam and the acrid scent of hot metal, it stopped. The porters that had been hanging out of the doors at the end of some of the cars hopped down and rushed to release the first-class passengers from their plush prisons. Marshall held his breath, searching for what he most dreaded.
Eileen spotted him the moment the door to her compartment was opened. As usual, she wore a stern frown that said she disapproved of trains, disapproved of Cumbria, and disapproved of him. She turned up her nose as her feet hit the ground. A porter rushed to do her bidding. She said something to him that Marshall failed to hear over the puff of the engine and the bustle of other passengers disembarking. He should have walked over to meet her, should have put on a smile and pretended nothing was wrong. Instead, he stood where he was, frozen in terror to his spot.
He would not let her take them. This woman, Clara’s sister, had no right to his girls. He would not allow her and her family—as powerful and influential as they were—to steal his life-blood from him.
“Pycroft,” Eileen greeted him in her loftiest tone as she approached. She sized him up like a fruit gone bad, sneering as if he smelled off. “I’ve told the porter to have someone send my luggage around to your house.” She said the last word as if the dwelling Marshall and his girls called home barely qualified.
“Very good,” Marshall replied with a stiff bow. At least he could fall back on manners to make an impression. It was easier than drawing pistols at fifteen paces.
That’s what this visit was, after all—a duel with the highest stakes.
With a nod, Marshall started forward. Eileen fell in at his side. The two left the station, headed down the stairs, and started up the street toward Marshall’s house without saying a word. The air seemed hotter, heavier, than it had in a while. All of the letters of reassurance and polite refusal to allow his girls to visit their London family at such a tender time had been for naught. Eileen had announced, not asked, that she would be arriving on the 9:45 train from Manchester only a few days ago. She had informed him in the most cryptic of tones that she had an offer to discuss with him. It could only mean one thing.
“The girls are looking forward to your visit,” Marshall lied when the silence had gone on too long.
Eileen nodded, eyes straight forward. “They should spend more time with their family.”
“I am their family.”
Eileen sniffed.
That was it. A few passersby on the street did a double-take when they saw Eileen in all her London finery. In nothing but grey and black, Eileen managed to make a statement. Her face was a mask of business. It revealed nothing and everything at once. She would fight. She would bring in the big guns. She would take his daughters from him.
By the time they climbed the steps to Marshall’s front door, his hands were shaking. He hid it as well as he could as he turned the key in the lock and let them in.
“Girls,” he called up the narrow staircase leading to the second floor where the bedrooms were. “Your Aunt Eileen is here.”
Silence. A few fading footsteps from above were the only sounds that betrayed there were children in the house.
Marshall cast a sideways look to Eileen.
“You must be tired from your journey,” he said, extending a hand to the small living room and escorting her through the doorway to the left. “Have a seat. Can I get you a glass of water? Tea?”
Eileen deigned to take a few steps into the living room, but she stopped there, nose lifting higher. The morning’s washing had not been taken down and put away, as Mary said she would do before Eileen arrived. They’d been forced to string it up in the living room yesterday as rain poured down outside. Toys and a few of Mary’s art supplies lay sc
attered on the low table in front of the sofa.
Marshall cleared his throat, then stepped back into the hallway. “Mary. Girls,” he called up the stairs. When no response came, he called, “If you would please come down, I should like to see you before I go to work and leave you in your Aunt Eileen’s care.”
That did the trick. The threat of being left alone with Eileen was enough to drag Mary and the others out of hiding. A few bumps and footsteps sounded, and a moment later, Martha came scrambling down the stairs. She latched onto Marshall’s leg, thumb in her mouth, as Mary and Molly slumped down to the hall after her.
“Don’t go, Papa,” Martha whispered around her thumb.
Heart breaking, Marshall bent over to pick her up. Even though she was growing too heavy for the gesture, he rested her against his hip and hugged her close. She plunked her head on his shoulder, hiding her face from Eileen.
“Really,” Eileen scoffed. “You coddle these children too much.”
A thick silence fell around them.
Aching with resentment and impending loss, Marshall said, “Say hello to your Aunt Eileen, girls.”
Mary sent him an aggrieved look before turning to Eileen with a fine imitation of the haughty expression Eileen herself wore. “Good morning, Aunt Eileen. Welcome to our home.”
Eileen sniffed. “That one will cause you problems,” she said, presumably to Marshall, though she never looked at him.
Mary narrowed her eyes. Marshall had never seen such hate in his sweet daughter’s face.
“Be good now and take the washing down,” Marshall ordered her in his kindest voice.
“Yes, Papa,” Mary replied with overdone sweetness, smiling at him, glaring at Eileen, then marching past the both of them and into the living room with her chin pointed up.
Eileen blew out a breath and shook her head. “It’s a disgrace, I tell you. Children should be taught to mind their betters. These ones will learn manners if it’s the last thing I teach them.”
And it would be the last, if Marshall had anything to say about it.
“If Clara could see the state this house has fallen into,” Eileen continued to cluck as she crossed through the right-hand doorway from the hall and into the dining room.
“We are doing a fine job taking care of Papa,” Molly said, reaching for his hand as they followed Eileen.
“Hmph. And who is taking care of you?” Eileen countered. She swiped a finger along a little-used side table, sneered at the dust, then wiped her hands together. “I wouldn’t let our servants live here, let alone my own nieces. This place is a sty.”
With Martha still hiding against his shoulder and Molly clutching his hand for all she was worth, Marshall forced himself to keep his temper in check. He wanted to shout, but instead he spoke in an even voice. “We have an occasional helper, Matty, who assists Mary with the shopping and laundering. She’s been…ill lately, though.”
In fact, he had far darker suspicions about the fate of Lawrence’s paramour. Rumors had been spreading like wildfire, and not all of them could be false.
“That girl needs to be fired immediately and more suitable help found,” Eileen said, brushing on into the kitchen. “Better still, the girls should come away from this place and reside in London, where they will be properly cared for as Clara intended.”
As soon as the heart of the matter was thrust out into the open, Martha tensed in Marshall’s arms and Molly squeezed close to him, as if phantoms would come and pluck them away that very moment.
“I will not give up my girls,” Marshall stated, plain and simple. “Not now, not ever.”
At last, Eileen turned to look at him. She was as solid and determined as a statue. “We shall see.”
A cold sweat broke out down Marshall’s back. If that wasn’t opening shots being fired, he didn’t know what was.
Eileen drew in a breath and shifted her weight. “Enough of this. I am here to provide assistance in caring for Clara’s children. This kitchen needs a thorough cleaning. It shall be done at once. Molly, show me where the supplies are.”
Molly sent a mournful, pleading look up to Marshall. It cracked more fissures into his already bleeding heart. With a look laden with apology, he nodded for her to go. Molly slowly pulled her hand from his and crossed to her aunt with all the courage of a soldier condemned to the front lines.
“I’ll fetch Mary,” Marshall said, and turned to leave the room.
Martha clung to him more tightly as he marched back through the dining room, across the hall, and into the living room. Mary had most of the laundry taken down and folded, but she looked as though she’d indulged in a few tears as she’d worked.
“Dear heart,” Marshall addressed her, guilt painting each word. “I have to go to the hospital now.”
“Papa, no.” Mary dropped the last of his shirt she was folding to run to him. “Please don’t leave us alone with Aunt Eileen. Please.”
“I have to, love,” he explained, bending as best he could with Martha wrapped around him to kiss Mary’s hot forehead. “I have patients to treat, a surgery to perform this morning.”
“She’ll take us away, Papa, she will,” Mary insisted.
“I promise you, she won’t,” Marshall told her.
“If you leave, I’ll run away.” She punctuated her threat with a stomp of her foot.
Under any other circumstances, Marshall would have been amused.
“If you ran away, who would take care of your sisters?”
Mary pouted. “I’ll take them with me.”
Now he did break into a weak smile. “You’re a good, dear girl,” he said, kissing her forehead once more. Somehow, he managed to pry Martha’s arms from around his neck and to set her down. She hugged Mary instead of him. “I do need to go, but I’ll be back for supper. Nothing could possibly happen between now and then.”
Mary only answered with a stern pout. He loved and admired her strength, even as it crushed his soul.
“If you need me for anything at all, you know where to find me. I’m half a mile away. Less, even. Be good for your Aunt Eileen now.” He spoke fast, before his words could turn into sobs, and turned to head to the hall. “Eileen,” he called through the dining room and into the kitchen. “I need to go to the hospital. If you need anything, please fetch me.”
Eileen’s only answer was a curt, “Goodbye.”
Marshall fled before he could change his mind and stay where he was. It would be easy to forget caring for other people in order to care for his own family. Easy, but not right. Too many other souls depended on him. He’d taken an oath to help the sick and injured, and Marshall Pycroft took his oaths seriously.
But as he left the house and headed up the sloping streets toward the hospital, he found it hard to breath for the worry and grief that squeezed him. He was one man up against a family with a will as strong as his own. He could tread water for a long time, but if one more thing fell out of place, if one more strike landed against him, he would be in trouble.
His thoughts sank to darker and darker places as he hurried along the streets of Brynthwaite. He hardly paid attention to where he was going until he spotted Lawrence, completely unexpectedly, heading into The Fox and The Lion pub. The odd sight was enough to shake him in his tracks.
“Lawrence,” he called out and picked up his pace. “What are you doing here?”
Lawrence stopped and started, turning as if he was being stalked by the fox and the lion of the pub’s name, until he spotted Marshall. Then his expression softened, but the dangerous glint in his eyes remained.
“Marshall,” he said, marching swiftly away from the pub’s door to meet him.
“It’s barely past ten o’clock,” Marshall answered. Seeing his old friend right then was close to being the thing he needed to soothe his darkened soul, but Lawrence appeared to be as disturbed as he was. “What’s wrong? How’s Matty?”
Lawrence’s eyes snapped up from where he had been scanning the street around them. They
narrowed slightly before he let out a breath and let his shoulders drop.
“Matty is well,” he said. “She’s safe. I have her where no one can find her.”
Marshall balked, blinking his eyes wide open. “Safe? Is she in trouble? Are the rumors I’ve been hearing accurate?”
Lawrence let out a breath and ran his hand through his hair. He needed a haircut and a shave both. Wherever Matty was, she wasn’t with Lawrence. Lawrence would never let his appearance slip if a woman was around.
“I can’t say much about it,” Lawrence said. “There was a murder. Matty was involved, but she is not the murderer.”
“Good Lord.” Marshall took a half step back.
“Unfortunately, the murderer is after her, but truly, that’s all I can say about it.”
Marshall opened his mouth to reply, but the shock of the revelation was too much for him to process. He shut his mouth and rubbed a hand over it. So much for entertaining the idea of taking his problems to Lawrence.
“Why are you at the pub in the morning?” he asked. It was the only thing he could think to ask.
A wicked glimmer appeared in Lawrence’s eyes, making him seem every bit the gypsy he was accused of being. “I’m going hunting,” he said.
He offered no more information, but turned and headed back toward the pub with a nod. The way he walked, the invisible cloak of tension around him, kept Marshall from charging forward and offering to help. Heaven knew he cared for Lawrence, and he owed a lot to Matty, but there were too many other things weighing on him. He watched Lawrence disappear into the pub, then hurried on to the hospital.
By the time he made it through the hospital’s front door, the place was in an uproar. A child was projectile vomiting in the corner while his mother wept loud enough to wake the dead. A trio of farmers who had all managed to injure themselves somehow sat at the far end of the same bench, grousing and grumbling to each other, and a variety of other wilted or injured-looking young people scattered the other waiting benches.
“Dr. Pycroft, these continued latenesses are not acceptable,” Mrs. Garforth harangued him as soon as he was halfway to the hall. “If you persist in—”
