The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Three

by Farmer, Merry

  Lawrence shrugged and started for the stairs. “As you said, Armstrong is a fool. He’s paying me far more than any sane man would. Matty and the children and I will be able to live for years off of what he’s already paid, and there’s more to come as the work continues.”

  “But what about after?” Marshall followed on his heels, desperate to talk him out of the mad plan. Lawrence and Jason were the only family he had, no matter what revelations had handed him a so-called mother in the last month.

  “Barsali’s tribe earns money somehow,” Lawrence argued. “We’ll do what they do.”

  “Are you sure—” Marshall stopped. He’d been on the verge of asking if Lawrence was sure they didn’t earn their keep through thievery and cheating. It might or might not have been true, but either way, Lawrence wouldn’t have forgiven him if he’d asked. Instead, he asked, “Are you sure Jason will want to part with Willy? The two have grown uncommonly close. And Connie is happy at Morningside Landing, Elsie is happy in the woods.” He wasn’t about to mention Mother Grace’s name, though.

  Lawrence stopped at the edge of the forge’s overhanging roof and turned to Marshall. “I’ve thought about it,” he said in a low voice, sending a sideways glance to Oliver and his new assistant. “I’ll give Matty’s siblings a choice. And to be honest, I think all three will choose to stay here. But Matty and I have talked about it, and she’s as eager to move on as I am.”

  Marshall gaped in desperation, scrambling for some way to make his friend see reason and stay where he belonged. “But the house,” he said, gesturing to the barely-finished building behind the forge. “You’ve only just finished it.”

  “And I hate it, Marshall,” Lawrence said with surprising passion. “I wasn’t meant to live this kind of life. I wasn’t meant to be tied down. I’m not like you and Jason. This isn’t for me.”

  The sting of his friend’s words hit deep. Marshall stared at Lawrence, feeling as though he’d been slapped. The man he saw as his brother was standing before him, rejecting everything that Marshall held dear.

  “I need to get into town,” Lawrence said. There was enough sympathy in his eyes to show that he was aware that his words hurt, but that he wasn’t going to take them back and he wasn’t going to change his mind. “Are you coming with me?”

  Marshall stood where he was, uncertain what to say, what to do. His life had only just come together in harmony, and now he was about to lose someone else. The ache in his chest was unmanly and too strong to bear, but he couldn’t help but feel it.

  “Marshall, there you are.” A new voice joined the maelstrom of emotion swirling through Marshall as Mother Grace stepped out of the house and started across the yard toward them. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I think I’ve stumbled across a curative tincture for Jason’s nerves.”

  A burst of fury replaced the agony that had threatened to tug Marshall under. “Go on,” he told Lawrence. “Do what you need to do.”

  “Marshall,” Lawrence said, as though the conversation were far from over.

  Marshall walked away, storming across the grass between the forge and the house to meet Mother Grace. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he shouted, roiling with shame that the inevitable conversation was about to happen in the worst possible way at the worst possible moment.

  Mother Grace pulled to a stop a few feet away from him. Her face held surprise for all of a moment before she softened into a knowing sigh. “How did you find out?” she asked.

  “Why should it matter?” Marshall snapped. “You lied to me for years.”

  “I never lied to you,” Mother Grace said, so calm that Marshall wanted to scream.

  Behind her, the door to the house opened and Matty stepped out, her baby in her arms, Elsie clinging to her skirt. Marshall met Matty’s frightened eyes, but went on.

  “You lied through my entire life,” he said, only barely keeping himself in check. “I was your son, and you gave me away like a dog you didn’t want.”

  “That’s not what happened at all,” Mother Grace said, her voice hoarse.

  “What kind of woman would drop their newborn baby at the door of an orphanage?” Marshall asked on. “You don’t deserve the name of Mother at all.”

  “You know full well what kind of mother gives up her child,” Mother Grace told him in a scolding tone that boiled Marshall’s blood. “You grew up watching those children join your fold. You’re a physician. Women drop their babies at the door to your hospital even still. You know what kind of women they are.”

  “You hardly qualify as desperate.” Marshall took a step toward her, his fists clenched. “You’re hardly destitute.”

  “I was then,” she said, raising her voice. She stepped closer to him. “I was barely twenty when you were born, Marshall, younger than that when you were conceived. The man who fathered you was married to someone else. He lied to me. Then he took his own life, leaving me nothing.”

  “I know,” Marshall said, a tiny scrap of pity keeping his anger in check. “I know all about John Keegan.” He hadn’t realized she’d been so young, though.

  Mother Grace flinched in surprise. “You know?”

  “Matty told me.” Marshall glanced to Matty.

  Mother Grace turned in surprise. “How did you know?”

  Face red, Matty took a few steps toward them. “I discovered the newspaper clippings and letters you had hidden while we were staying with you over the winter. I didn’t know what they were at first.”

  “But you puzzled it out,” Mother Grace finished for her with a sigh and a shake of her head. “You’re far cleverer than anyone gives you credit for, my dear.”

  “You lied to me,” Marshall said, drawing Mother Grace’s attention—and hopefully her ire if she was upset with Matty—back to him.

  “I never did,” Mother Grace repeated, her head held high.

  You—”

  “Do you remember the first time you met me?” she interrupted his attempt to continue raging.

  Marshall stopped and blinked, searching back through his memory. In fact, he couldn’t. Mother Grace had always been there for him, Jason, and Lawrence.

  “Do you remember why you call me Mother Grace?” she asked on.

  “Because you’re a witch,” Marshall said, itching with uncertainty. “It’s what everyone called you.”

  Mother Grace shook her head. “It’s what you called me, you three. You because from the first time I came across you, Lawrence, and Jason playing on the village green and joined you, I told you I was your mother.”

  “You….” Marshall frowned. “You did?”

  “That’s what I told you to call me.” Her mouth tugged into a grin. “I told Lawrence and Jason to call me Miss Grace, but by the end of the afternoon, all three of you were calling me Mother Grace. It stuck.”

  “But…I don’t remember that.”

  “Of course not. You were barely more than three,” Mother Grace said. “And the poor girl who was supposed to be minding the lot of you had so much on her hands that she was grateful for the extra help. I spent far more time with you three before you reached the schoolroom than you remember. And once you were older, I told you how to find my house in the woods.”

  “Lawrence stumbled across you by accident,” Marshall said, his head suddenly pounding as the fuzzy memories of his childhood fell into question. He’d been so certain he knew how everything had progressed in his life, but now he knew nothing.

  “I’ve always been there for you, Marshall,” Mother Grace went on. “But I was young, unwed, without employment or a home. I had no family of my own and nothing but a hut I built in the woods to keep the rain off.”

  “You have family,” Marshall said.

  But even as he did, he couldn’t think of a single parent, sibling, or cousin that Mother Grace had ever called her own. She was the witch in the woods. The trees were her family and the creatures of the earth were her friends. Or so the child he’d been had thought. The man he was now looked back
and saw her life entirely differently. She had no one. No one but three orphan boys who saw her as a fairy godmother out of a storybook.

  “I have you,” Mother Grace said at last. “And your brothers.”

  A fresh wave of betrayal at Lawrence’s plan to leave struck Marshall. He glanced over his shoulder, half hoping Lawrence was still there, that he hadn’t left to help Willy, but the road was empty as it stretched away from the forge. A part of the road would always be empty, no matter what he did. Such was the plight of the orphan.

  “You should have told me,” he said, heart hardening, turning back to Mother Grace.

  “I did,” she repeated.

  Marshall shook his head. “Telling a three-year-old child is not enough. You had every opportunity to repeat the truth, to make certain that the man I grew to be knew that he wasn’t alone, that he hadn’t been abandoned.”

  “I did what I thought was best,” Mother Grace said, blinking rapidly, the first sign that guilt was gnawing at her Marshall had seen. “You had an entire life without me.”

  “But I could have had an entire life with you,” Marshall said, a prickling sort of acceptance coming over him. He shook his head, taking a step back. “I could have had a life with you, but it’s too late now. Far too late.”

  He turned to go, walking toward the road as fast as he could while still maintaining his dignity.

  “Marshall,” Mother Grace called after him.

  Marshall walked on, not looking back. Too much time had passed and too many things had happened in his life to ever look back.

  Lawrence

  Lawrence’s life felt as though it had become nothing more than a long string of difficult decision. Deciding to walk away from Marshall as he faced Mother Grace in favor of running to Willy’s rescue didn’t make him feel proud, but Marshall could take care of himself, whereas Willy might not have the same moxie.

  It was the same when it came to deciding whether to stay put in Brynthwaite, toiling away at a dying profession for the sake of the people he claimed as family or leaving to explore the potential of a life with men and women who might be his true family. But what was true family? Was it the people with whom you shared branches of the same family tree or was it those you’d known for as long as you could remember, whether you were related by blood or not? And if Marshall and Jason were his brothers in the way he felt them to be, they would be there for him when and if the time came to return home.

  He’d been so clear about what he needed to do as recently as that morning, but he hadn’t taken into account how Marshall would react to his plans. Now Lawrence could think of little else as he strode into town, a scowl on his face and purpose in his stride. Marshall had had a hard year, and there was no telling how much harder it would get, now that the revelation about Mother Grace had come into the open.

  He hadn’t been at all surprised when Matty had explained everything to him, including the need to keep quiet about the truth until Marshall had the opportunity to face Mother Grace on his own. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d always assumed Mother Grace was a part of his family by blood, not just affection. He’d known it like he knew the tides of the ocean rose and fell, even though he’d never seen them. But that only proved how vital family was to a man’s nature.

  He had family waiting for him in the south somewhere, if he could just find them.

  “I should have known you’d be skulking about, Smith.”

  Lawrence snapped out of his thoughts, lifting his head from the path he’d been staring in the road as he walked, only to see Mayor Crimpley stomping toward him from the steps of the town hall.

  Lawrence was in no mood for another round of conflict with Crimpley. He stopped, turning abruptly toward the man, feeling dangerously close to doing or saying something he would regret just to get rid of the man.

  “I have as much of a right to walk through town as you do,” he said instead.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Crimpley said with a sniff, moving warily closer to Lawrence.

  “I don’t have time for your prejudice today, Crimpley,” Lawrence grumbled before moving on.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Crimpley jogged after him.

  “It’s none of your business,” Lawrence said, though it would become apparent in a matter of moments where he was headed to.

  “That’s your problem, Smith,” Crimpley kept right on Lawrence’s heels. “Impudence. It’s been your problem since you were a boy and it will be the end of you one day.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Lawrence said. If ever there were an argument to leave Brynthwaite, it was tailing him as he walked down the street. He would never be treated fairly as long as Crimpley was mayor, as long as he held sway over those who considered themselves the high and mighty in town. His children would never be treated fairly either. The mission he was on at that moment—to intervene on Willy’s behalf as the ten-year-old was being investigated for murder—was proof of that. Lawrence hated the idea of Bracken, and any other children he would have with Matty, being raised under a shadow of suspicion simply because they were his.

  “You’re going to the hotel,” Crimpley said accusingly as they crossed the street and made the final approach. “You can’t hide that from me.”

  “I’m not trying to,” Lawrence called over his shoulder. “Jason is my friend. I have every right to visit my friend on a Saturday afternoon.”

  “But that isn’t why you’re going, is it?” Crimpley pressed. “You know what’s going on at this very moment. You know that the noose is tightening around your neck and the neck of that rotten apple Throckmorton has been sheltering under his roof.”

  Lawrence stopped abruptly and whipped to face Crimpley. He wanted to demand the coward answer for insulting a child and harassing him and his family, but instead he barked, “What are you talking about?”

  The question must have seemed convincing. Crimpley reeled back, the color leaving his face as a shard of fear entered his eyes. He stammered for a few seconds before managing to squeeze out, “Det. Lewis from Scotland Yard had plans to interview Willy Hoag this afternoon.”

  Lawrence put everything he had into appearing shocked. Willy’s life, his life, depended on it. “What’s this?” he demanded. “What new low has your harassment stooped to?”

  By all appearances, Crimpley believed that Lawrence didn’t know what was truly going on, that he’d been taken by surprise. “The boy may know something,” he stuttered. “Hoag was his father, after all. Rotten apples from a rotten tree. You can never be too careful.”

  It was a load of tripe, but Crimpley’s words gave Lawrence the excuse he needed to break into a jog and to close the distance to the hotel.

  The hotel was a buzz with activity when he and Crimpley arrived. The dining room was filled with ladies seated at tables taking tea and listening to someone speaking. They burst into applause just as Lawrence sped through the door. He took one look around, and when he didn’t see Jason or Flossie anywhere, he strode to the desk.

  “Where is Jason?” he asked.

  Daniel had the look of a man who knew exactly what was going on and exactly what was at stake. “They’re in the office,” he said, stepping away from the desk and knocking lightly on the office door.

  Moments later, Jason yanked the door open with a growled, “What?” As soon as he spotted Lawrence, a look of relief joined his ferocity. “Good. You’re here.”

  “I was just stopping by to see how the…event was going,” he said, nodding to the dining room but darting a glance toward Crimpley.

  To his credit, Jason played along instantly. “Well, you’re going to want to join us in here instead.”

  He stepped back and held the door open. Lawrence marched into the office, Crimpley on his heels, as though he believed the door would be slammed on him and he’d be excluded. Extra chairs had been brought into the room. Det. Lewis sat in one and Constable Burnell in another. Between them and facing them, Willy sat in Jason’s
chair, which had been wheeled around to the front of his desk. The book looked tiny and afraid in the oversized chair. Flossie sat in a wooden chair by his side, holding his hand, but it was clear Willy had been crying.

  Lawrence’s heart pounded to his throat. He wanted to tear Lewis and Burnell limb from limb for the torture they were clearly putting Willy through. But as he surged forward, Jason clamped a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

  “Mr. Smith is Willy’s legal guardian,” Jason explained. “It’s a good thing he arrived before the questions truly started.”

  Grudgingly, Lawrence stilled. He forced himself to take another look at the situation. Lewis and Burnell were positioned confrontationally in front of Willy, but whoever had positioned Willy knew what they were doing. He looked smaller and younger—and more innocent—seated in Jason’s chair as he was. The image of an inordinately pregnant Flossie sitting by his side, holding his hand, lent even more of an air of virtue to the tableau.

  Det. Lewis stood at the sight of Lawrence and turned to greet him. “Mr. Smith,” he said, extending his hand, his face neutral. “My apologies for not alerting you to this interview beforehand. I was uncertain whether you or Mr. Throckmorton was responsible for the boy, and it was impressed on me that time was of the essence in the investigation.”

  A weak wave of relief passed through Lawrence. Lewis wasn’t on Crimpley’s side. But whether that remained true depended on what Willy said. Since feigning protective outrage had worked in the street with Crimpley, he continued with the ruse. “It isn’t right to frighten the boy,” he said. “Hoag terrified the lad enough in his life.”

  “All the more reason for the boy to act out,” Crimpley said, stepping forward as though he would take charge of the questioning. “For all we know, the murderer worked with master Willy. The boy could have known where his father was all along. The boy could have murdered Hoag himself.”

  Willy gasped and shuddered in his chair. Flossie squeezed his hand and leaned toward him to whisper something in his ear.