The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part One

by Merry Farmer

  “Here we are,” Polly declared. “And not a moment too late.”

  They passed through the open font gates in a low wall around the property. Flossie was surprised to find the garden inside of the gates to be a mess of dirt and masonry, with workers climbing all over themselves to get things done. At closer inspection, the hotel clearly wasn’t finished. Workmen were still constructing one of the outbuildings and even parts of the main structure. Through the windows, Flossie spotted a handful of women cleaning with furious energy. The windows were curtainless and had the empty feeling of a building that wasn’t yet inhabited.

  “Ooh, he did follow us,” Polly whispered as they started up the marble stairs toward the hotel’s front door.

  “Who?”

  Flossie answered her own question by turning to see Mr. Smith striding through the gate as though he owned the place. That was where the following stopped, though. He took the ironwork off of his shoulder and walked it along the side of the house. One of the workers stopped what he was doing to come and take it from him. In a flash, Flossie knew what the metal thing was—an ornate grate that would fit over a window well.

  She didn’t have time to observe more, though. Polly rushed her through the hotel’s front door and into the lobby.

  The lobby was more finished than the front garden. The warm wood paneling was polished, and the green and gold wallpaper looked as crisp as if it had just come off a roll. To one side, a wide doorway opened to what appeared to be a dining room—though the tables were bare and scattered and stacks of chairs stood randomly between them—while to the other side was a hall and a grand staircase, carpeted with new, dark green carpet. A long oak desk stood at the back of the lobby, and behind that was an open door to one side and a closed one to the other. A young man in what looked to Flossie like livery stood behind the desk, sorting through something out of sight that clinked and clattered. He glanced up as Flossie and Polly approached.

  “Miss Florence Stowe to see Mr. Throckmorton,” Polly announced importantly.

  The young man narrowed his eyes, raking Flossie with an assessing sweep, and apparently found her wanting. Flossie stood straighter and arched an eyebrow. The young man shifted into a mirthless smile.

  “Wait here,” he said, and turned to the open door behind him. “Mr. Throckmorton, you have—”

  “Yes, I heard.” The young man was interrupted by a baritone snap. An imposing gentleman marched into the doorway. His sharp eyes looked from Polly to Flossie, as if Flossie were an hour late to her interview instead of exactly on time. “Come in.”

  The gentleman, Mr. Throckmorton, stepped back into his office without another word. Flossie took a deep breath and exchanged a wary look with Polly. Polly gave her an encouraging nod and motioned for her to go on. The young man at the desk ignored both of them.

  Steeling her courage, Flossie dodged around the desk and entered the office behind it. Mr. Throckmorton closed the door, then marched ahead of her toward a desk. There was nothing to be frightened of, she told herself. Mr. Throckmorton knew why she was here. He’d granted her the interview. His hotel obviously needed staff. She was at the right place at the right time. All she had to do was speak up for herself, something she had more than enough experience doing.

  “Come in,” Mr. Throckmorton repeated as he reached his desk, sounding perturbed. “I don’t like dawdling.”

  “No, sir,” Flossie said, picking up her pace and coming to stand in front of the room’s large desk.

  Mr. Throckmorton’s office had the same scattered, unfinished feeling as the rest of the hotel, in spite of its sumptuousness. The desk was a fine example of craftsmanship, but it was littered with papers, binders, and samples of everything from wallpaper to fabric to stone. Several framed paintings sat on the floor, leaning against the walls where Flossie assumed they would be hung as soon as someone found the time. Behind the desk stood two tall, twin windows, both without curtains. They were the only windows in the room.

  Mr. Throckmorton himself was the only thing about the room that didn’t seem hastily put together. On the contrary, no one could have mistaken Mr. Throckmorton as anything but a gentleman of means. His hair was brushed and parted with precision, he was clean-shaven, and as he gestured for Flossie to stand where she was already standing, she saw that his nails were precisely kept. His clothes were of the latest style and fit well. The only oddity about them was that he wore his stylish, knee-length coat buttoned up, in spite of being indoors in the middle of the day. Lord Morley had preferred the same kind of coat, but he and every other gentleman Flossie had seen wore them open to reveal some sort of splendid waistcoat.

  “Florence Stowe?” Mr. Throckmorton asked as he took a seat behind his desk.

  “Yes, sir,” Flossie answered with a short curtsy. “Flossie, if you prefer.”

  “Flossie,” he repeated, shuffling through the papers on his desk. “And you come from,” he paused for the amount of time it took him to find a letter written in a fine hand amongst the clutter on his desk, “from Derbyshire.”

  “Of late from Derbyshire, yes, sir,” she told him. “Though I was born and raised in Lincolnshire.”

  Mr. Throckmorton remained silent, scanning the letter. “You were upstairs maid in the house of Lord Morley, Earl of Derby, at Crestmont Grange?”

  “Yes, sir,” Flossie answered.

  Mr. Throckmorton glanced up at her over the top of the letter with a tight frown. “Why would an upstairs maid in the house of an earl wish to leave her position to come to work at an untried hotel in the Lake District?”

  The blunt force of the question sent prickles of self-consciousness down Flossie’s back. She couldn’t hide the blush that tinted her cheeks or the anxiety in her eyes, but she could hide the truth.

  “I felt it was time for a change, sir,” she explained. She forced herself to meet the man’s hazel eyes as she spoke. Liars never looked you in the eye. “I had been working at Crestmont Grange since I entered service as a kitchen maid when I was twelve. And though I proved myself and was advanced to the rank of upstairs maid in good order, I found that I craved a bigger challenge.”

  “A bigger challenge?” Mr. Throckmorton cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll certainly find that here.”

  “I hope so, sir.” She held her breath, willing him not to ask deeper questions.

  “Did the Morleys entertain much?” he asked, setting the letter down and leaning closer to her across the desk.

  Flossie’s heart thumped in her chest. If she kept her wits about her, she could prevent him from asking anything she didn’t want to answer.

  “They entertained during the hunt. Lady Morley has a wide circle of friends who she invites to stay whenever possible. The staff at the Grange was frequently called upon to make up and refresh the bedrooms with little notice, as well as tending to the guests and residents quickly and efficiently.”

  “So you have experience in a fast-paced environment,” Mr. Throckmorton concluded.

  “Yes, sir.” Some of Flossie’s tension melted. He’d taken exactly what she’d wanted him to take from her explanation.

  “And you got along well with the other staff?”

  A bolt of fear seized her. She willed herself to remain calm, to keep her face pleasant and neutral, and to reply without a tremor in her voice. “Yes, sir. The housekeeper never had reason to complain.” She couldn’t complain about what she didn’t know, after all.

  “You want to leave all that for this hotel?” Mr. Throckmorton questioned her again.

  Flossie swallowed, weighing her options. The truth wasn’t one of those options, at least not the whole truth. A tiny slice of it might be enough.

  “As you may know, sir, Miss Polly Penrose, lady’s maid to Lady Elizabeth Dyson, is a dear friend of mine from childhood. It was she who informed me that the hotel was hiring maids. I relished the opportunity to live close to my friend once more.”

  Mr. Throckmorton stared at her. For one horrible moment, Flossie th
ought he could see right through her clothes, through her skin, and straight into her heart, his gaze was so piercing. She couldn’t let her shame show, and so met his stare with her own. She would not look away first. She would not betray what could ruin her.

  At last, Mr. Throckmorton took a breath, his eyes fluttering down to the letter in front of him.

  “Yes,” he said, taking it up and scanning it once more, “Lady Elizabeth recommends you herself. I cannot refuse such a glowing recommendation from such an esteemed personage.”

  This time, it was Mr. Throckmorton whose face betrayed his thoughts. Enough color came to his cheeks to confirm everything Polly had said in her letters about him hotly pursuing Lady E.

  “You have the job, Miss Stowe,” he said, meeting her eyes again.

  “Thank you, sir.” Flossie burst into a wide smile. She could feel the joy of those few words spill through her. More than joy, relief. At last, she could start over. She could put the past behind her and begin again.

  Jason

  “I trust you are prepared to start immediately,” Jason told the beaming Miss Stowe.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She was a pretty thing when she smiled like that, with eyes as blue as the sky after a storm and cheeks as pink as roses.

  Before the thought could take hold of him and cause the havoc he worked so hard to avoid, he frowned and cleared his throat, then stood.

  “The staff quarters are on the ground floor behind the stairs,” he informed her, coming around the side of his desk, tugging his coat straight, and looking away from her. “See Dora about assigning you a room. You can move your things in—”

  His words were cut off as the corner of his coat brushed a stack of bills, mail orders, and curtain samples, sending them flying. Miss Stowe jumped, and with lightning-fast reflexes, caught the pile before it could so much as skew.

  For a moment, both of them were stock still. Jason hadn’t realized anyone could move so fast. At last, Miss Stowe let out a breath and set the stack of papers and fabric back in its place on the desk.

  “Well done, Miss Stowe,” he said, tempted to smile, but stopping himself. “If the hotel ever fields a cricket team, I’ll be sure to make you keeper.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, meeting his eyes.

  He glanced away, gesturing for Miss Stowe to precede him to the office door. He would have to do something about the way she looked at him, without apology and with only a hint of deference, for his sake as much as for hers. He suspected those eyes of hers had the power in them to undo months of painful progress.

  Jason stepped ahead to open the door, then followed Miss Stowe out of his office, taking his hat from its hook by the doorway. That hook was the one thing he had insisted be put in place in his office. For everything else, the hotel came before him.

  “Are you going out, sir?” Samuel, the young man he’d hired last week to tend the front desk asked as Jason swept past.

  “Yes,” Jason answered. Samuel didn’t require any more of an answer. Like Miss Stowe, he had come from service. It seemed half of his new staff had come out of one great northern estate or another. It made him wonder what service put people through these days. And to think, when he’d left the orphanage, they’d told him that if he worked hard, he might be able to earn a place as a footman.

  Jason loved proving people wrong.

  A peal of giggles to the right drew his attention as he strode through the lobby. Miss Stowe had rushed over to Miss Penrose, and the two were carried away in a fit of exuberance, brought on, no doubt, by Miss Stowe informing her friend that he’d given her the job. The rush of heat and blood through him at the sight of two such lovely girls was enough to make Jason wonder if he’d made a mistake. Recommendation from Lady Elizabeth or no recommendation, he would have done better to hire the plainest girls Cumbria had to offer.

  The thought turned his frown into a glower as he stepped through the hotel’s open front door and into its disaster of a front garden. He didn’t mind the door being kept open. It was a fine May day, and sunlight had always done wonders for him. It was the incessant ticking of the great, invisible clock within as he surveyed the dirt and disorganization of the garden that pressed on him. In just over a fortnight, The Dragon’s Head was set to open. He already had bookings. His agents in London and Manchester had done their job, exciting interest in Brynthwaite as an upscale retreat for toffs in search of a little country air. He was determined to give them everything they’d been promised, but if the workmen didn’t pick up the pace, he ran the risk of falling flat.

  “Jason!”

  Lawrence’s shout snagged Jason before he made it to the gate and into the street. He stopped abruptly and pivoted to find his friend striding toward him from across the soon-to-be lawn. Miss Stowe and Miss Penrose nearly barreled into his back, they were so busy watching Lawrence. Miss Penrose’s eyes were as round as saucers. The ghost of a grin tweaked the corner of Jason’s grim mouth. He hadn’t believed his old friend when Lawrence had told him half of the genteel girls in town were afraid of him. When they were young lads in their prime, the girls couldn’t get enough of Lawrence. Of him either, if he was being honest. Lawrence always had handled it much better than him.

  “Before you go, let me show you the new grate,” Lawrence said as he approached.

  Jason stepped back, tipping his head slightly to Miss Stowe and Miss Penrose as they passed between him and Lawrence on the path. Miss Stowe was staring at him once more. Those damned eyes of hers made him feel as naked as…. Well, it was best not to go there. As soon as they had passed and gone out through the gate, Jason left the path to meet Lawrence.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said as Lawrence fell into step beside him.

  Lawrence shifted into business so smoothly that anyone who didn’t know better would think he was a serious man. “Since this one is for the garden side, I added a floral motif.”

  “I didn’t realize grates had a motif,” Jason replied. He dodged a pile of stones that would become a rustic garden wall—sooner rather than later, he hoped. The mason and his assistant bowed and doffed their hats, which was ridiculous considering that Archie Hudson, the mason, had thrown stones at him and the rest of the orphanage children when they were boys.

  “Nature has her hands in everything, even iron,” Lawrence explained with a smile.

  He was right. The grate that a pair of craftsmen were fitting over a cellar window on the side of the hotel’s south wing was a thing of beauty. Lawrence had worked it with leaves and blossoms, as if it were a screen for a lady’s boudoir rather than a thing of utility.

  “Lawrence, you never cease to amaze me,” Jason said, thumping his friend on the back.

  Lawrence laughed. “This from the man who could buy me a hundred times over.”

  “Never,” Jason replied. “There is no price for you. I just wish that I could hire you for more work.”

  “You’ve given me more work than I can handle,” Lawrence came back. “Oliver is far more talented than anyone gives him credit for, but at the end of the day, the two of us can barely keep up with the orders you’ve placed.”

  “You will have them done in time, won’t you?” The twist and pinch of time getting away from him bunched Jason’s already tight shoulders. His whole world was tension and the stress of the effort it took each moment just to hold himself together.

  Lawrence nodded consideringly. “I’ve prioritized. Everything that will be most readily apparent to your guests will be finished first. A few minor pieces that won’t be seen as often or that don’t need to be as polished will come along afterwards. It won’t all be done by the time you’re open, but most of it will.”

  Jason let himself grin. “You’re just trying to stay on as long as possible.”

  Lawrence chuckled and turned to head back toward the front gate, Jason striding at his side. “Work has never been a problem,” he said. “I could shoe horses and forge gates and hinges every day if I wante
d to.”

  “That’s a relief,” Jason nodded.

  “I’ll never want for anything as long as I have the sky above me and the earth beneath me,” Lawrence went on, reverent as a poet.

  “Someday I’ll learn to be as content as you,” Jason said.

  They wound their way along a flagstone path that was actually finished as the hotel’s head gardener transplanted a bush that looked ready to burst with color. Good. The more attractive a picture this hotel presented, the better his chances of making it a success would be, and the more people—certain people in particular—could see his success, not just hear tales of it, the better his chances of making his whole life a success would be.

  “I see you hired another maid,” Lawrence commented as they turned onto the main path and headed down to the gate.”

  “The one with Miss Penrose.” It was more of a clarification than a question.

  “She’s a beauty.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Jason lied.

  “Striking hair and eyes, kissable mouth, shapely.”

  Jason sighed. “If you’re attempting to tease me, I would rather you didn’t,” he snapped.

  Lawrence chuckled. “Jason, if I failed to tease you, then what was the use of all those years we spent wreaking havoc together?”

  Jason sent his friend a wary sidelong glance. There was no sense holding the cruel joke against him. Lawrence didn’t know what he was saying. He hadn’t been in London for the last decade. He didn’t know.

  “Teasing is well and good, but some things cut to the quick. Now if you will excuse me, I have to stop by the hospital.”

  “Hospital?” Lawrence balked. “You’re not sick, are you?”