They spent a few minutes attempting the Sisyphean task of tidying up the parlor as Mary changed her clothes. By the time she came down again—looking like a child still, in spite of her insistence of being grown up—the room looked marginally better.
“I’ll walk you to the hotel,” Marshall said. “Molly, you’re in charge of Martha for ten minutes.”
“Yes, Papa,” Molly shouted over her playing.
Alex, Mary, and Marshall set out to the hotel. May had swept into Cumbria with showers and clouds, but they had given way to a gorgeous, sunny day. Green was everywhere, and the gardens of Brynthwaite were in full bloom. As they walked slowly up the road to Lake Street—Alex was increasingly frustrated with how cumbersome she’d become, but the baby was due in only a month’s time—the view of the lake peeked through the town’s lanes and side streets.
“This is exactly the reason Jason built his hotel here,” Marshall said as they crossed in front of the hospital. “And with any luck, Lady Waltham’s London friends will see how lovely our town is and tell all their friends that they simply must holiday here.”
“Why Marshall,” Alex laughed. “I never would have pegged you as one to invite tourists to your hometown.”
Marshall was about to reply when a call of, “Alex, Marshall,” reached them from one of the upstairs rooms of the hospital. They both turned—Mary too—to find Arabella waving to them from a first-floor window. She motioned for them to come closer, then held up a finger and pulled away from the window.
“I wonder what she wants,” Marshall said.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Alex answered.
As soon as traffic had passed, they crossed the street, making a detour into the hospital. There were only a few people waiting to be seen by one of the nurses, and at a quick glance, Alex could see none of them were suffering with serious maladies. The deep voices that came from the hall gave her more pause, though.
“And no one was treated for gunshot wounds this winter?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
Alex and Marshall exchanged concerned looks and quickened their pace down the hall toward the cafeteria. Mary followed them with a confused look.
Before they could reach the large room with its rows of tables and benches, Arabella rushed down the stairs, meeting them at the bottom.
“There you are,” she whispered. “I was on the verge of sending someone to fetch you. Det. Lewis and Constable Burnell are here accosting Nurse Nyman and Mrs. Garforth.”
“We can see,” Marshall said, heading on to the cafeteria.
“Thank you for signaling us,” Alex said.
She and Arabella hurried after Marshall.
“No, sir,” Mrs. Garforth was in the middle of answering the detective. “No gunshot wounds at all. They aren’t common in these parts.”
“Gentlemen, can I help you?” Marshall asked as he entered the cafeteria.
Alex recognized Det. Lewis when he turned around. She knew Constable Burnell well. She sighed inwardly with relief to see that Mayor Crimpley wasn’t with the two men.
“Dr. Pycroft.” Det. Lewis greeted Marshall with a businesslike nod. “I’m glad you stopped by. I felt awkward about questioning your staff without you.”
“It’s a Saturday,” Marshall said, shaking the man’s hand when it was offered. Alex was proud of him for the gesture and for keeping a pleasant, entirely unsuspicious demeanor. “We attempt to enjoy a bit of time off on weekends. Is there something pressing you need to know about?”
“Hoag’s body had gunshot wounds,” Constable Burnell said, glancing sideways at Det. Lewis. “Mayor Crimpley thinks that’s significant.”
“It is significant,” Marshall said, his face perfectly straight. “But as I understand, that fact has already been investigated.”
“Crimpley seems to think someone at the hospital has more information,” Det. Lewis said, glancing to Marshall with a look of apology.
“Hoag wasn’t well-liked,” Alex said with a shrug. “Not just in Brynthwaite, but all across Cumbria. The gunshot could have come from anyone, anywhere.”
“Agreed, Mrs. Pycroft,” Det. Lewis said. For once, Alex didn’t mind not being referred to as Dr. Dyson. If the detective saw her as just a pregnant woman, he wouldn’t suspect how much she actually knew about the situation. Det. Lewis went on with a sigh. “Crimpley seems to believe the murderer is from Brynthwaite. I hate narrowing my investigation this much—”
“Then why narrow it?” Alex interrupted.
“In truth, Mrs. Pycroft, I haven’t,” he answered. “I’ve spent as much time in Grasmere and Kendal as I have here, and I believe there are stronger leads there. But Crimpley insists I be thorough.”
“We should go to the hotel next,” Constable Burnell said. “Crimpley is certain Hoag’s boy—I think his name is Billy—knows something.”
Beside her, Alex felt Marshall tense. “Willy is only ten,” he said.
Det. Lewis looked uncomfortable. “True, but it wouldn’t hurt to question him.”
In fact, Alex was certain it would hurt very much. Willy had been in a bad state since the night of Hoag’s death and was only just recovering. She opened her mouth to say something to dissuade the detective.
“Perhaps your right,” Marshall said. “But please don’t rush out of here on my account.” It was all Alex could do to keep herself from gasping in surprise, until he went on with, “Feel free to interview my staff as much as you’d like, Det. Lewis. A thorough job is a job well done. But if you will excuse me, I was on my way to escort my wife to an event at the hotel.”
“Good afternoon, then,” Det. Lewis said with a pleasing smile. “Enjoy yourself, Mrs. Pycroft. Those ladies who came up from London yesterday are a treat, though one of them has a room next to mine at the hotel and—” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say that she and her husband are loud.”
“Thank you, Det. Lewis,” Alex answered, blushing, but deciding to leave the rest unsaid.
Marshall escorted her back to the hall, Arabella and Mary following.
“I need to get to the forge as soon as possible to warn Lawrence that Lewis and Burnell are going after Willy,” he said.
“I’ll let Jason and Flossie know Willy could be in trouble,” Alex said, then asked, “Will the girls be all right on their own?”
“I want to go to the literary event,” Mary said in an anxious voice, turning pleading eyes to her father.
“There’s a literary event?” Arabella asked.
“Yes,” Alex answered. “At the hotel. Lady Waltham has invited a group of her friends up from London to hear the author, Mrs. Malory Hyde, speak about her latest book.”
“Mrs. Hyde?” Arabella’s eyes filled with stars. “She’s one of my favorite authoresses.”
Alex blinked at her, an idea pulsing through her. “You’re welcome to come with us,” she said. “My invitation is only for one, but I’m certain neither Lady Waltham nor Flossie would mind if you joined us.”
“I….” Arabella looked severely tempted.
Alex held her breath, praying that they had, at last, found a strong enough pull to get Arabella to leave the hotel and rejoin society.
“Am I dressed appropriately?” Arabella asked at last.
Alex felt a thrill of victory pass through her. Arabella was dressed far too elegantly for the hospital. “You look beautiful, as usual,” she said with a smile.
“Then—” Arabella hesitated, biting her lip. “I think I will come with you,” she said. “I do so admire Mrs. Hyde.”
“I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Marshall said, nodding to Arabella, then kissing Alex’s cheek. “Keep yourself out of trouble,” he whispered before pulling back and kissing Mary’s forehead.
“You do the same,” Alex said, squeezing his hand.
Marshall hurried off down the hall. Alex, Arabella, and Mary started after him at a much slower pace. The afternoon had suddenly become even more interesting than it had started out being.
Everything was chaos, as usual.
“Are the cucumber sandwiches ready?” Flossie asked as she marched into the buzzing kitchen. Well, not marched exactly. Marching was difficult with a belly the size of a whale.
“Yes, Miss Stowe,” Cook called from the stove, where she was stirring two bubbling pots of soup at a time.
“Have the scones and cream been sent out yet?” Flossie asked, glancing over Cook’s shoulder, then waddling over to the counter, where the kitchen staff was madly preparing platters of treats for the guests, who were already assembling in the dining room.
“Yes, Miss Stowe,” the three young women answered in unison.
“Mrs. Hyde has come down from her room and would like to know where she should deliver her speech from,” Jason announced, striding into the room with purposeful steps.
Flossie turned to him, barely having time to admire the fine figure he cut. He was in his element, helping her prepare for Mrs. Malory Hyde’s literary presentation. The two of them had been up since dawn, directing staff, monitoring the kitchen, and coordinating with Mrs. Hyde and Lady Waltham about the particulars of the event. Flossie didn’t think either one of them had stopped moving since leaving their suite before the sun was up. But all of the activity seemed healthy for Jason. He had an energetic glow about him, and even though he wore his long coat buttoned tightly, Flossie could tell he was more at ease than he had been for weeks.
“Take this,” she said with a smile that couldn’t be contained, handing him one of the finished trays of lemon tarts. “We need to make certain the refreshment table is fully stocked at all times.”
“Yes, Miss Stowe,” Jason said with mock solemnity, though there was a sparkle in his eyes.
Flossie sent him a sly grin, then picked up a tray of tarts herself. Together, the two of them headed into the hall.
“Pick up the pace, Miss Stowe,” Jason called over his shoulder to her as they made their way to the dining room. “I won’t stand for any of my staff dawdling about and wasting time.”
Flossie laughed wryly, tempted to balance the tray on her belly as she worked to keep up with Jason. “Are you looking for a tight slap?” she asked as they crossed through to the dining room itself.
“Always,” Jason said. “A hard one. I want it to sting. I don’t want to be able to sit down for a week.”
Neither of them stopped moving as they took the trays to the long refreshment table, where Dora was arranging things.
“Not in front of the children, dear,” Flossie said before handing her tray off to Dora.
Dora sent a quick, fond grin Flossie and Jason’s way, then focused on work.
“I think we’ll need another chair at this table,” Flossie went on without stopping for more than a second. She crossed through the sea of small, round tables that had been set up in a fan shape around an area that wasn’t supposed to be blank. “Gregory, where is the podium?” she called out to one of the porters, who was fussing with a table of books near the room’s grand fireplace.
“I’ll get the podium,” Jason said, veering away from her. “You fetch Mrs. Hyde from the lobby.”
“Right.” Flossie nodded to him, changing direction to pursue her task. Her heart thrummed with satisfaction at the job she and Jason were doing. They worked so well together in every way. She missed the days when they managed every little thing that went on in the hotel together. Being solely in charge was a treat that precious few women in the world were granted, but working in tandem with Jason was a thousand times more satisfying.
“Mrs. Hyde, I’ve been told you have questions about your presentation,” Flossie said as she crossed from the dining room into the lobby.
A cluster of middle-aged ladies in fashions that were far too grand for dozy, old Brynthwaite waited near the stairs.
“Is the room ready yet?” Lady Waltham asked from the center of the group.
“It should be momentarily, Lady Waltham,” Flossie told the eccentric noblewoman with a patient smile.
“Ladies, you simply must meet our Miss Stowe,” Lady Waltham told the others.
“Miss Stowe?” A tall woman with golden-blonde hair asked, her brow lifting as her gaze dropped to Flossie’s huge stomach.
Lady Waltham slipped over to Flossie’s side, taking her arm. “Miss Flossie Stowe is a thoroughly modern woman,” she said. Flossie wasn’t sure whether to blush or lift her eyebrows to her hairline. “Not only is she the manager of this hotel, she makes no secret of the fact that she is the paramour of Mr. Jason Throckmorton, the owner, who has built a veritable empire of hotels across Britain.”
Flossie decided that, yes, she did indeed want to sink into the floor as Lady Waltham aired her business for her friends. The London ladies made a chorus of positive sounds as a result of the revelation, though.
“I applaud your determination to continue to work while expecting, Miss Stowe,” the eldest of the lot, a regal woman with strong cheekbones and silver-grey hair told her. “I had to manage my first husband’s death and his estate as well when I was expecting Natalia, but propriety dictated I do it all from the shadows. I’m glad things have changed.”
“Things haven’t changed that much, my lady,” Flossie said in a quiet voice.
She glanced over her shoulder to the dining room door only to find Jason standing there, making a show of taking out his pocket watch and checking the time. He shook his head at her with mock disapproval, then disappeared back into the dining room.
Flossie stifled a grin as Lady Waltham said, “Miss Stowe, may I introduce you to Lady Katya Campbell.” She gestured to the silver-haired woman.
“How do you do, my lady?” Flossie curtsied.
“And these are Mrs. Alexander Croydon, Marigold to her friends, Lady Mariah Dunsford, Lady Lavinia Helm, and Lady Cecelia Stanhope, who is married to Lady Campbell’s son, Rupert. And Lady Campbell is married to Cece’s father, which is all very confusing, I know, but it just goes to show that there are unusual and surprising arrangements wherever one—”
“That’s enough, Elaine,” Lady Campbell said with a long-suffering look. “There’s no need to boggle the poor woman’s mind when she’s attempting to put together a grand event for us. And I believe Malory had questions for her.”
“I did, Lady Campbell,” Mrs. Hyde said, mirth in her eyes as she watched Lady Waltham’s antics, trying not to laugh.
“Ladies, it is a pleasure to meet you all,” Flossie said to the assembly of grand ladies. “I beg your pardon as I assist Mrs. Hyde with her presentation.”
“Not at all.”
“Go right ahead.”
“We’re so looking forward to it.”
Flossie managed as much of a curtsy as she was able to with her protruding belly, aching back, and feet that were beginning to swell in her shoes, then turned to Mrs. Hyde. “Let me show you what we’re preparing for you, Mrs. Hyde,” she said.
She led the authoress into the dining room just as Jason stepped forward. “Are we able to let the ladies into the room yet?” he asked. “I fear for the furnishings in the lobby if we delay much longer.”
Flossie sent an apologetic look to Mrs. Hyde, then laughed. “They’re noblewomen, Jason, not a pack of wild hyenas.”
“I wasn’t referring to Lady Waltham and her friends,” Jason said with a grim look, eyes still flashing with energy. “I spotted E and Lady Charlotte walking up the lane.”
“Lord preserve us all,” Flossie said in a low voice. She glanced around the room. Dora and one of the kitchen maids were still arranging the refreshment table, but things looked sorted enough. “Go ahead,” she said. “Mrs. Hyde, let me show you the podium we’ve set up for you.”
Jason marched on to the dining room door as Flossie took the guest of honor to the podium. Within seconds of the ladies being invited into the room, the walls rang with chatter. Flossie could only imagine where all the women came from. Several of the guests must have been strolling through the gardens whi
le waiting. A dozen women flooded into the dining room as soon as Jason gave the word, and a dozen more within a minute. By the end of five minutes, it was a veritable madhouse in the room.
“I don’t see the tea,” Flossie whispered as she caught up to Jason’s side.
Jason stood straighter, looking around. “Damn,” he muttered. “And I don’t see the punch.”
“You find out what happened to the punch and I’ll ask about the tea,” Flossie said.
Jason nodded, and once more they set off in different directions, like dancers completing intricate choreography. Flossie loved every moment of it. She loved the expectation and the energy. Even though she desperately needed to sit down, she kept going.
Which was all well and good until she entered the staff break room.
“Betsy, what on earth are you doing in here?” Flossie asked her sister, though it was obvious. She was eating one of the lemon tarts that had been made for the event.
Betsy jumped to her feet, crumbs and lemon curd sticking to her chin. “I could ask you the same thing,” she said in a tone that tried to take charge. “You shouldn’t be rushing about in your condition. Why, when I was so far along with my little ones, I did nothing but lie on the couch while others did the hard work.”
“I don’t doubt that for an instant,” Flossie said, crossing to the table to pick up the tray of teapots that Betsy most likely should have taken out to the dining room. “And how are your little ones these days?” she asked, arching a brow at her sister.
“Mama says they’re fine,” Betsy said, taking the heavy tray from her. “And before you give me that look, I’m working for you now so that I can send money back to them. And to learn how to run a hotel so that I can go work for Mr. Armstrong.” She smiled, full of cunning.
Flossie didn’t have time to lecture Betsy on how she was no more capable of running a hotel than a race up a mountain. “Please take the tea out to the refreshment table,” she said instead. “Dora will know where to put it.”
Even with a heavy tray, Betsy was faster than her. By the time Flossie made it back out to the dining room, Jason strode up from the kitchen to join her.
The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Three Page 7