The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Three

by Farmer, Merry

  “You?” Marshall cut her off, staring hard at Lady Charlotte. In that moment, he had no idea what to think of the cold and lofty woman.

  “Yes,” Lady Charlotte answered with a nod, tilting her nose in the air. “And I would expect far more gratitude from a man who owes his family to me. I am appalled at the way I have been treated these last few months.”

  Marshall’s mouth dropped open, but before he could gather his wits enough to speak, Alex’s hand clamped on his arm.

  “Marshall, a word?”

  Her eyes were fierce as she tugged him away from the swirling mass of revelation and complication standing at the back of the church. He went with her gladly, down the aisle and all the way to the far corner of the church, near the door to the sacristy.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered once they were as alone as they were going to be.

  Marshall glanced to the back of the church. It appeared as though Mary had taken over asking questions and making demands. He wondered what his eldest thought of the whole tangle.

  “I am really and truly sorry I neglected to say anything,” Alex went on, placing a hand flat on his chest.

  Marshall let out a sigh, focusing on her and resting his hand over hers. “It’s not your fault. You’ve had other things on your mind.”

  “None of them are excuses,” Alex insisted. “I should have remembered something as important as this.”

  All Marshall could do was press his hand over hers and shake his head. It was too late. Too many cats were out of the bag, running around toppling glasses and making a mess of things. Lady Charlotte had gotten his girls back. Mother Grace was his mother. Mary knew everything, which meant that Molly and Martha would know soon too. And he was about to be a father again, starting the entire process of love and fear all over again.

  “The piano is too large to send back,” he said at last with a sigh.

  “And Molly does enjoy playing,” Alex said. “She’s gotten better.”

  “It’s not as though your mother is demanding Mary go to live with her at Huntingdon Hall as a lady’s companion,” Marshall went on.

  “Yes,” Alex added, one eyebrow arched.

  “She wouldn’t, would she?” he asked.

  Alex shrugged. “Would Mother Grace demand that the girls or this one—” she rubbed her massive stomach, “—go stay with her in the woods?”

  Marshall winced. “If she didn’t have Elsie with her, I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  Alex took both of his hands, squeezing them. “We won’t let anyone take our children ever again,” she said. “No matter what their reasons or connection.”

  “We won’t,” Marshall agreed, feeling marginally better. At least he wasn’t alone. With Alex by his side, he didn’t have to be.

  She seemed to be thinking the same thing. She reached out to cradle his cheek, deep love in her eyes. “Why don’t you head over to the hotel and see how Jason is doing?” she suggested. “You’ve been of absolutely no use here, and I’m afraid for your health if you continue in the same room as your mother and mine.”

  “Mothers,” Marshall muttered like a curse. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Alex grinned. “If I weren’t about to be one, I would agree with you wholeheartedly.”

  In spite of his fuming temper, the ladies who were surely watching them, and the expanse of Alex’s body, Marshall drew her close and kissed her tenderly. He would have given just about anything for the two of them to have just a few hours together, alone, without children or mothers, the hospital or weddings. Perhaps Lawrence wasn’t as mad as he thought to want to take Matty and run away.

  “I’ll handle the mothers,” Alex said when he stepped away. “You slip out the back door.”

  “Are you certain you want to do that to yourself?” Marshall asked.

  “No,” she answered. “So you’d better run while you can, before I change my mind.”

  “Good thinking,” he said.

  He kissed her one more time, then retreated into the sacristy and out the door on the other side, wondering what he did—good and bad—to deserve the life he had.

  Lawrence

  A feeling of cautious lightness filled Lawrence as he strode across the village green to the stairs that would take him down to the lakeside path. The last time he’d traveled to Brynthwaite, Barsali had positioned his band’s wagons at the far end of town, near the lake so that they could fish, but far enough from the dwellings of the town to avoid complaints. It was impossible for the brightly-painted caravans to avoid notice, though.

  He made it halfway down the lakeside path, passing by a series of shallow docks, before James Mercer, one of the local fishermen who had pulled Hoag’s body out of the water, flagged him to a stop.

  “Did you hear about that detective’s findings?” Mercer asked.

  “Yes, he’s closed the investigation,” Lawrence told him.

  “Blimey,” Mercer exclaimed, swiping his hat from his head and pushing a hand through his damp hair. “Never saw that one coming.”

  “Why?” Lawrence asked with a frown. He hadn’t intended to stop and get into a conversation, but curiosity got the better of him.

  “A man was shot and thrown in the lake is all,” Mercer replied. “He looked a fright when me and Paul fished him out of the water. You’d think they’d be able to find who did that to him.”

  Lawrence shrugged. “There is no honor among thieves. Hoag was probably killed by someone he had dirty dealings with.” There didn’t seem to be any harm in putting that idea about.

  “I don’t know.” Mercer made an uncertain noise, glancing from Lawrence along the lake’s edge to where bits of color from Barsali’s wagons were just visible. “Seems kinda strange that undesirable sorts would show up at a time like this. They were here last fall too. That body looked like it was in the lake for a long time. And that one gypsy was spotted in town this past winter.”

  “Is that so?” Lawrence said in a flat tone, insulted to his core, but also not surprised that fingers would be pointed at Barsali for more or less no reason at all.

  “Aye,” Mercer went on. “It’s like you said. There’s no honor amongst thieves. If you ask me, I’d be willing to bet Hoag ended up at the bottom of the lake because of a deal gone wrong with those stinking gypsies.”

  Lawrence clenched his teeth tight and forced himself to take a breath before replying. “Det. Lewis’s investigation disagrees with you. He found no connection between Hoag and the Romani.” Lewis found no connection between Hoag and anyone, but Mercer didn’t need to know that.

  “All the same,” Mercer said, his face pinching. “Those gypsies had better watch their backs.” He glanced down the lake shore. “I don’t like them here.”

  “Good day, Mercer,” Lawrence told the man as politely as he could, which wasn’t very.

  He thrust his hands in his pockets and kept walking. It rankled on his every nerve to see the prejudice that met the people who were very likely his family. It was shades of Crimpley all over, as if hatred were a disease that was spreading. There was no reason for the distrust either. The Romani were different. They looked different, their culture was different, and their religion was different. That alone seemed enough for the masses of “good Christian people” to hate them, but the reality was hypocrisy at its finest. Piety was nothing more than an excuse for elitism. It was why Lawrence had been so quick to accept the old ways, as taught to him by Mother Grace. A truly all-loving Goddess was far grander than a snobbish God any day.

  “A look like that needs a warm welcome to banish it,” Barsali said as Lawrence approached the cluster of wagons parked near the edge of the river.

  Lawrence managed to push his frustration aside, but only barely. “It’s good to see you, brother,” he said, shaking Barsali’s hand and thumping his back the way he did with Jason and Marshall.

  “I can see that, pral,” Barsali said, holding him close for slightly longer than was acceptable by Brynth
waite standards. Lawrence appreciated the gesture of friendship, though. “What has you looking as though someone has squeezed lemon in your coffee?”

  Lawrence let out a weary breath and rubbed a hand over his face as Barsali drew him inside the circle of the colorful wagons to a small camp. The band wasn’t large, but the circle of their wagons felt like home. A fire had been built in the middle of the circle, and a trio of brightly-dressed women were cooking fish, boiling water, and making some kind of flatbread in a skillet over the flames. Two men were tuning guitars as they sat on folding chairs near one of the wagons. A few children ran around, naked, being chased by a dog. Everything was laughter, smiles, and song.

  Lawrence took another breath, the scene calming him. He could imagine Matty dressed in the flowing skirts and embroidered blouses that the women wore with ease. He could see Bracken as a boy, gamboling about with the other children, his eyes bright, laughing. The scents of cooking and incense filled him, whispering to him of the life he could have.

  Barsali studied him with a knowing grin. “Tell me, pral, are you a free man?”

  An itchy feeling that the question was so much more than a sideways inquiry into the Hoag investigation filled Lawrence. “Det. Lewis has concluded that Hoag’s murdered will never be found. Apparently Scotland Yard isn’t interested in investigating the death of a known criminal, hundreds of miles away from London, any further.”

  “Then all is well?” It was definitely a question, not a statement that, in fact, the investigation brought an end to Lawrence’s troubles.

  Lawrence sighed and sank to sit in one of the folding chairs by the perimeter of the wagons. Barsali sat with him, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

  “I think the time has come for me to learn about my people,” Lawrence said.

  Barsali smiled widely. “You wish to come with us when we leave.”

  “I do,” Lawrence admitted slowly. It was one thing to think and dream and suppose, but here he was sitting across from the man who could change the very nature of his life forever.

  Barsali’s grin turned wistful. “This is not a life for everyone, pral. Always moving, always vilified. Yes, we are a close family. We have our traditions and our ways, but it is not an easy life.”

  “Life isn’t easy any way you cut it,” Lawrence said. He leaned back in his chair. “I had to take Colin Armstrong up on his offer to make things for his hotel.”

  Barsali nodded, a signal he remembered the interaction from that winter.

  “He’s paid me a king’s ransom,” Lawrence went on. “I’ve done the work too. Much of it. I hired a man to help as well. And I finished the house I’d been trying to build for Matty.” He paused, frowning.

  “And you do not like it,” Barsali spoke Lawrence’s feelings aloud.

  Lawrence shook his head. “This isn’t the life for me.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Barsali agreed. “At least, it’s not the life for half of you. The half you have yet to explore.”

  “And I’m ready to explore it,” Lawrence said with renewed energy. “I can’t live the rest of my life wondering.”

  “You don’t have to, pral,” Barsali said. “You’re more than welcome to come with us when we leave.”

  “We are?” It was as though a mountain of trouble lifted from Lawrence’s shoulders. He couldn’t remember a wave of happiness hitting him with such intensity. He was certain he would have when Bracken was born, but those circumstances had been the stuff of nightmares. He was ready to live now, ready to bring life to his family.

  Barsali reached out and thumped Lawrence’s shoulder. “Why do you think we came back here?” he asked. “Back to a place where we are looked at like worms and suspected of every petty crime?”

  “You came for me?” Lawrence asked.

  Barsali wasn’t able to answer. Before he could do more than open his mouth, a shrill police whistle sounded, announcing the arrival of Mayor Crimpley, Constable Burnell, and, of all people, Det. Lewis.

  Lawrence stood, scowling at Crimpley and Burnell. He focused on Lewis, though. “They didn’t let you get away after all, then?”

  Lewis looked uncomfortable but vigilant. “Crimpley insisted—”

  “There he is,” Crimpley cut him off, pointing at Barsali as he stood by Lawrence’s side. “There’s the man who stole my wife’s silver.”

  The women who had been working so cheerfully around the central fire pit jumped up, gathering their children and whisking them into the wagons. The men set aside their guitars, a few others appearing out of the wagons or walking up from the edge of the lake, where they’d been fishing, to form a solid wall of opposition behind Lawrence and Barsali.

  “You’re low, Crimpley,” Lawrence growled. “Accusing a man of theft without cause? It’s to get back at me, isn’t it?”

  “My wife’s silver went missing this morning,” Crimpley insisted, his eyes wild. “Lots of things in town have gone missing since this lot arrived. I want this man arrested.”

  Burnell stepped forward, his eyes anxious, but he stopped just short of laying hands on Barsali.

  “You can’t arrest a man without evidence,” Lawrence complained. He appealed to Lewis, “You know as well as I do this is just another manifestation of Crimpley’s grudge.”

  Lewis looked far more serious than he had just an hour earlier. “A bandana was found on Crimpley’s porch.”

  Lewis glanced to Burnell, who was two seconds late in pulling out a colorful bandana from his pocket. “Looks like something that would belong to this lot,” he said, waving the scrap of fabric.

  A pit of dread opened in Lawrence’s stomach. It wasn’t only something like Barsali or his band would own, the bandana in question was from the exact same fabric as the bandana one of Barsali’s men wore around his neck.

  “That proves nothing,” Lawrence said. “I don’t know where you got that.”

  “Search the wagons,” Crimpley ordered.

  Burnell launched into action, bolting for the nearest wagon. He climbed inside. A moment later, there was a scream and a woman with a baby leapt out. Seconds later, horrible crashing and sounds of destruction came from inside.

  “You can’t do this,” Lawrence roared, jerking toward Crimpley.

  Barsali caught him and held him still. “They can and they will, pral. We are used to it.”

  “Pral?” Lewis asked. “Is this man your brother?”

  “He may be,” Lawrence answered.

  “Didn’t you know Smith here was gypsy scum?” Crimpley asked Lewis with a look of triumph in his eyes. “Why do you think I have been so suspicious of his involvement in Hoag’s death? They’re all criminals.”

  Lawrence huffed an impatient breath. His aggravation shifted to worry when Lewis narrowed his eyes and studied him anew.

  “I didn’t know,” Lewis said.

  “Now you do,” Crimpley said, beaming with joy. “Are you still certain you want to close your investigation now?”

  “The investigation is already officially closed,” Lewis said, but he didn’t sound as definitive as he had earlier.

  “What will it take to open it?” Crimpley asked as Burnell darted out of the wagon he’d been searching and climbed into the next one. The same process of crashes and mayhem followed.

  Lewis glanced over his shoulder at the din Burnell was making, then cleared his throat and faced Crimpley, Lawrence, and Barsali again. “New evidence would have to come to light.”

  “There you go.” Crimpley gestured to Lawrence. “You’ve discovered Smith’s heritage. That’s new evidence.”

  “It isn’t, actually,” Lewis grumbled.

  Lawrence couldn’t tell if he was upset because he wouldn’t be able to reopen his investigation or because of Crimpley’s raving. Before any of them could add anything, a cry of victory sounded from the wagon where Burnell was. A moment later, Burnell emerged with a handful of silver cutlery.

  “I told you,” Crimpley exclaimed. “I told you they
were thieves.”

  “That isn’t your cutlery,” Barsali said, but with an air of resignation.

  “I’m certain it is,” Crimpley said, snatching it from Burnell when he came closer. He barely looked at it before saying, “My wife knows what our knives and forks look like, not me, but I’m sure she’ll corroborate this evidence. Burnell, arrest this man at once.”

  As Burnell rushed forward to grab Barsali’s arms and hold his hands behind his back, Lawrence shouted, “You can’t do this. A handful of forks isn’t evidence. You don’t even know if that’s Barsali’s wagon.”

  “Easy, pral,” Barsali said. “The stream must flow where the banks take it.”

  Lawrence’s anger snapped to Barsali, startling him. How could the man simply let Crimpley win? It was a travesty in every sense of the word. It drove Lawrence mad to stand by and watch the injustice.

  “You’re a witness, Lewis,” Crimpley said. “When this man comes to trial, you’ll testify, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Lewis said.

  Lawrence gaped at the man. He had been so certain Lewis was fair and beholden to the law. It turned his stomach to find that he was just as biased as Crimpley.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Lawrence called as Burnell yanked Barsali into motion and walked him out of the circle of wagons.”

  “Oh, but I will,” Crimpley said, stepping closer to Lawrence. A fiendish gleam shone in his eyes. “I told you not to cross me, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’re going to see who really has the power around here. It’s only a matter of time before I find you guilty by association.”

  He took a step back, laughing, then marched away, gesturing for Lewis to follow him.

  Lawrence watched them go, seething. He was left standing in the circle of wagons, watching every certainty he knew about the world outside of that magical group crumble on its foundations. The worst part was that he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Crimpley would always come after him, always look for revenge. The world outside of the wagons belonged to him.

  Jason