by Merry Farmer
Jason ignored him. “Just a stop before I head up to Huntington Hall.”
He had hoped to leave it at that and escape, but Lawrence stopped him with, “Still paying court to Lady E, I see?”
With a face as grim as death, Jason replied, “Always.”
For a moment, Lawrence’s humor shifted to pity. The sight of it turned Jason’s stomach.
“I wish you luck, then.” Lawrence nodded. “Why don’t we meet at The Fox and the Lion for supper and you can tell me all about your conquest.”
The bitter feeling in Jason’s stomach stayed right where it was, but he softened his features when he said, “All right.”
Lawrence waved goodbye to him, then headed down one side of High Street, while Jason marched off down the other.
Brynthwaite Hospital was only a hundred yards or so from the entrance to The Dragon’s Head, down the hill. Jason had planned it that way when he purchased the land. He wanted his guests to feel the assurance of having a first-rate medical facility within a stone’s throw. He had wanted that, but instead he had Brynthwaite Hospital.
The building was as colorless and foreboding now as it had been when he and Lawrence and Marshall Pycroft had been awaken at dawn every day, thrown into drab gray uniforms, and marched down to the gloomy mess hall for tasteless porridge and watered-down milk. Whereas the sunlight seemed to sparkle and dance in the glass windows of the shops and houses across the street, all light and happiness was sucked into the hospital, where it withered and died.
A pair of coughing children huddled inside of the dark foyer as Jason stepped through the front door. It got worse from there. The front room of the hospital—once a coatroom packed with dozens of identical, ugly cloaks in varying sizes, and boots that were seldom claimed by the same owner twice—was now a waiting room. An over-crowded, sick-smelling waiting room with a single, harried nurse clucking and fussing at the potential patients, as if it were their fault they were there. As it happened, that same nurse, Mrs. Garforth, had been responsible for shoving orphans into those long-ago cloaks and boots, just as she was responsible for the people in the waiting room now. Some things were as immovable as the pyramids, and Mrs. Garforth was one of them.
“Mr. Throckmorton,” she exclaimed when she noticed Jason, saying his so-called family name the same way she would ‘Mr. Up-To-No-Good’ when he was ten.
“Mrs. Garforth.” Jason removed his hat and bowed to her with a shadow of the fearful respect that she had demanded as a much younger woman. “Is Dr. Pycroft in his office?”
Mr. Garforth laughed. “He’s in his office and on the ward and in surgery all at once. Good luck finding him.”
Jason took that as permission to cross out of the waiting room and into the hallway that had stayed fresh in his mind years after he’d walked out for what he had hoped would be good. A child was screaming blue murder and crying in a room somewhere off one of the side corridors. A depressing chorus of moans and grunting sounded from somewhere else, likely one of the old classrooms that had been converted into a recovery room or examination room. On top of that, the shrill shouting of a pair of nurses, arguing over who should clean up after someone or other reverberated off the walls. It was enough to bring on a headache in five seconds.
“Marshall,” Jason boomed. Anywhere else and he wouldn’t have dared to holler, but childhood experience had taught him that the only way to be heard in this building was to be the loudest.
A crash sounded down the hall, followed by a frustrated, “Dammit!”
Moments later, Marshall stomped out into the hall, a bloody rag in his hands. “Simon,” he bellowed, face red, moustache bristling. “Simon, you lazy cur, where are you?” He spotted Jason and stormed down the hall toward him.
“Things are a little busy?” Jason said.
Marshall huffed a mirthless laugh. “Busy, chaotic, insane, muddled, and impossible is more like,” he growled. “Simon, goddam you!”
Another crash sounded from above, followed by the pounding of footsteps heading down the building’s main staircase. Jason knew every creak and step of those stairs like the back of his hand.
“Yes, Dr. Pycroft? You called, Dr. Pycroft?” The gangling young man that nearly lost his footing at the bottom of the stairs reminded Jason a little too much of the underfed, under-educated boys that had been dropped off at the orphanage and had no idea how their lives had gotten so thoroughly away from them—as opposed to the boys like him, Marshall, and Lawrence, who had been at the orphanage so long they remembered nothing else.
“Help Mr. Vair in examination room two. I’ve lanced and bandaged that boil, but he needs help getting his trousers back on,” Marshall ordered the young man.
Simon swallowed, turning slightly green, and wearily said, “Yes, Dr. Pycroft.” He ran off into the room Marshall had come from.
Marshall turned to Jason, finishing wiping his hands and thrusting the dirty cloth into his apron. “What do you want?”
Jason was too used to rough manners to blink at his friend’s foul mood. He knew too much about Marshall's home life to ask what had him in such a temper.
“I’ve come for my medicine,” he said, lowering his voice.
Marshall narrowed his eyes and sniffed. “Oh, that?” Both syllables dripped with disapproval.
“Yes, that,” Jason said with a clenched jaw. Added to the tension in his back, clenching his jaw pushed the headache he had from walking into the building to raging fullness.
“It did come in,” Marshall conceded. He huffed out a breath and marched past Jason to the hospital’s office.
The office was surprisingly tidy, given the chaos in the rest of the hospital. If ‘tidy’ was a word that could be used to describe neatly arranged piles of bills, carefully scrubbed cupboards with nothing in them but a few bottles, and a locked cash door that Jason was reasonably certain had less than five pounds in it. Marshall crossed to a cabinet, opened the door, and took out a blue glass bottle that was about the size of his hand. With a frown firmly in place that etched lines between his eyes, Marshall brought the bottle to Jason and thrust it at him.
“It’s useless swill,” he said.
Jason took the bottle and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. “What do I owe you?”
“You owe me the decency of not believing in quack tonics to cure fabricated diseases.”
Jason flinched. Leave it to Marshall to say exactly what he felt. Leave it to him not to understand at all.
“Did you read the ingredients?” Jason asked, a burst of shame making him mumble the way he had when the headmaster of the orphanage had dragged him up for disciplinary action. He took a bill from his pocket and handed it across to his friend.
“I did,” Marshall said, taking the money and crossing his arms. “There’s nothing in there that will kill you, if what the bottle says it contains is true. Which is a big ‘if.’ Chamomile, lavender—which I thought was quaint. A trace of opiates, I’m sure. It’s mostly alcohol. You can medicate yourself with that at The Fox and the Lion.”
“Thank you for your expert medical advice, Dr. Pycroft,” Jason snarled. “I plan to do exactly that for supper with Lawrence. You’re invited, by the way.”
All of Marshall’s pent-up fury rushed out on a sigh, and he rubbed his forehead. “I’ll get there if I can. If Clara doesn’t come for my blood first.”
Jason arched a brow. It was the closest he would come to asking about his friend’s marital problems. Marshall replied by shaking his head, tangible weariness blanketing him.
“You need to be careful about these so-called medicines,” Marshall said, more sympathy in his voice. “The ones that aren’t as harmless and useless as tea could cause serious damage.”
“That’s why I have you order them and vet the contents before I take them,” Jason said, unable to meet his friend’s eyes.
Marshall crossed his arms. “It’s all in your head, man,” he said. “You’re no more afflicted than I am.”
“No?�
�� Jason drawled. Marshall had no idea what kind of suffering he’d been through, what kind of suffering he endured on a daily basis. Lawrence laughed at him too. Between the two of them, they seemed to think he should just let nature take its natural course and damn him.
“If it vexes you that much,” Marshall said, lowering his voice and stepping closer, “why not just go down to London and—”
“I’ve just spent the last ten years in London,” Jason snapped, “and believe me, it did not help matters at all. Quite the opp—”
He was cut off by another crash and a cry from the hall.
“Bloody hell,” Marshall growled and cut around Jason to rush out of the office. “What the devil is going on in here? Can’t I turn my back for five minutes without the walls crumbling?”
Just like that, Jason was forgotten as his friend rushed off to put out whatever fire had been started. Jason debated staying to help him out. Heaven only knew that Marshall needed help. There was no point, though. He didn’t know what he was doing and would only be in the way. He left the office and strode out through the hall and the waiting room. Mrs. Garforth gave him a suspicious look as he went. That much was a familiar comfort, at least.
As soon as he was out in the sunshine of High Street, Jason’s headache lifted. He crossed the road and marched on to the mews that stood around the corner. As soon as the stables were finished at the hotel, he would move his carriage and horses there, but in the meantime, they were housed at the public livery. The groom there rushed off to saddle his horse, and within fifteen minutes, Jason was riding calmly away from the center of Brynthwaite and out along the lake road toward Huntington Hall.
As far back as Jason could remember, the one thing that had soothed his soul and put his troubles to rest was riding. Sitting on a horse, all of the pain and the shame and the struggles that his life had thrown at him were forgotten. He loved the sunshine and the fresh air, and if he’d had time, he would have gone riding through the forests and glens around Brynthwaite until he lost himself entirely. People whispered about Lawrence being the wild gypsy, but Jason knew that a drop of that magic—that magic or that curse—had ended up in his blood too.
At the same time, nothing could get him to Huntington Hall fast enough. The vast estate that had once encompassed Brynthwaite and the entire surrounding area was the ancestral seat of the Dyson family. They had been the earls of Thornwell and lords of the land as long as anyone could remember and farther. Dysons had owned the land as far back as the sixteenth century, and for all that time they had lived in harmony with the village and farm folk under their care. The modern world had changed the nature of that relationship, and the long illness of Lord Thornwell had changed the face of the representative of the first family, but Lady Elizabeth was as well-loved by the people whose great-grandparents had once owed fealty to her family.
Jason had loved her for as long as he could remember. His heart sped up as he turned his horse off the main road and onto the well-kept lane that wound up the hill toward the manor house. As a boy, he’d caught a glimpse of Lady Elizabeth riding through town in an open carriage, her golden-blond hair loose down her back and a garland of rosebuds and ribbons on her head. He’d lost his heart to her right there and then, and every waking moment had been devoted to discovering how a poor orphan boy could make himself grand enough to win the hand of the fair maiden who lived in the castle on the hill. Every step he took when he left Brynthwaite, every pound he made, every accomplishment he had numbered was for one thing and one thing only—for Lady Elizabeth.
“The ladies are in the rose garden, enjoying tea and company,” Lord Thornwell’s butler, Hugo, informed him when Jason called at the front door. “If you will come this way sir, I can show you out to the party.”
“The party?”
An uneasy prickle raced down Jason’s back. He had hoped to catch Lady E. alone, to impress her with the progress his hotel was making and to please her by telling her he’d hired the maid she had recommended. He hadn’t counted on competition, particularly not in the form of Mrs. Crimpley, the mayor’s insufferable wife, and a dandy of some sort that he’d never clapped eyes on before. The dandy was there with his mother, of all things, and along with Lady Charlotte Dyson, Lady E’s widowed aunt, and her daughter, Alexandra, Lady E’s cousin, it was far less of an intimate afternoon than Jason had longed for. His hopes fell flat at his feet.
“Lady Elizabeth.” He made a deep bow to her once Hugo announced him. As was only fitting a gentleman of the highest order—a gentleman he would have given his eye teeth to actually be—Jason bowed to the other ladies in as close to the proper order as he could figure out on the fly. “Lady Dyson, Mrs. Crimpley, Lady Alexandra—”
“Doctor Dyson,” he was sure he heard Alexandra grumble.
“—and Mrs…?”
“Hello, Mr. Throckmorton.” Lady Elizabeth graced him with a smile. “This is Lady McGovern, a friend of my mother’s, and her son, Lord Angus McGovern.”
Lord Angus stood, spilling the tea cloth draped over one of his knees to the grass, and crossed to shake Jason’s hand.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Throckmorton.” The young man pumped Jason’s hand. He still held a teacup in his other hand and splashed tea over the sides. “I won’t be outnumbered anymore,” the man added with a snorting chuckle.
Oh. Dear. God. Jason did his best to smile. He wished he could run. He would have done better to stay at the hotel and oversee preparations.
Or so he thought, until Lady E. smiled at him.
“How are things at your fine hotel, Mr. Throckmorton?” she asked, the sunlight no match for the beauty of her blue eyes.
Another set of blue eyes rushed suddenly to mind, but he shut the image away.
“Preparations are—”
“Mr. Throckmorton is opening a hotel in town,” Lady E. spoke over him, leaning toward Lady McGovern and her simpering son. “It’s quite lovely, if I do say so myself. How many rooms did you say it has again, Mr. Throckmorton?”
“Twenty-four,” Jason said. “And a dining—”
“Yes, there’s a restaurant attached to it,” Lady E. rushed on. “I’m sure it will be quite splendid and that we will dine there frequently.”
That’s why I built it, Jason thought.
“I hear the views from the guest rooms are lovely,” Lady E. said, “and that it is sure to attract the finest clientele, here to see the lakes in all their beauty.”
“Is that so?” Lady McGovern asked Jason.
“It is,” Lady E. answered for him. “We are so proud of our Mr. Throckmorton. He is a local boy, you know, raised at Brynthwaite Municipal Orphanage.”
Jason fought to keep the wince he felt from showing on his face. Lady McGovern flinched, blinking rapidly at him.
“An orphan? Good lord,” Lord Angus exclaimed. He also relaxed, as though certain Jason could no longer be considered competition. He was a fool.
“I may have been born in humble circumstances,” Jason began.
“Mr. Throckmorton has made quite a name for himself,” Lady E. interrupted, bright as the dawn. “He owns a great number of hotels in London, Manchester, Liverpool, why, all over England.”
“Six hotels,” Jason said as modestly as he could.
Lord Angus frowned and tensed all over again. Jason sent him a gloating grin. Lady McGovern glanced to Lady Dyson, who nodded with a knowing smile. Alexandra’s brow was knit and her posture loose, as if she wasn’t paying attention to the conversation at all.
“I say it’s proof of what a good, English education can do for a man with the drive to improve himself,” Lady E. said followed by, “Do sit down, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Thank you, Lady Elizabeth.”
It was just Jason’s luck that the only empty chairs were at the far end of the circle from where Lady E. sat, next to Alexandra. He took it as well as he could, and strode across the gathering, then turned to sit in one of the white-painted wrought-iron chairs.
“Oh. What’s that?” Lady E. asked.
The one time Jason would have preferred not to catch her notice. When Alexandra leaned over to retrieve the bottle, Jason held his breath. Blood and embarrassment rushed to his face. He prepared for disaster as Alexandra studied the front of the bottle, flipped it to read the back, then handed it to him. Their eyes met.
Alexandra
Finally, something interesting had happened. She wouldn’t die of boredom after all. What was a social-climbing hotelier doing with a bottle of some quack remedy? It was impossible to figure out what illness it was for from the label. She’d seen similar stuff sold in hamlets in Hampshire. It could have been intended as a cure for baldness or rheumatism or plantar warts, for all the label revealed. Mr. Throckmorton may have been an orphan, but he was also a sophisticated gentlemen, one smart enough to make a name and a fortune for himself. He should have been smart enough to know that remedies like the one he’d just slipped casually back into his coat pocket were no better than pond water, and frequently twice as dangerous.
“It’s nothing,” he answered Elizabeth’s question. “Just some cough syrup. The dust at the hotel due to the construction irritates my throat sometimes is all.”
It was not cough syrup.
Interesting.
“What is the name of the syrup?” Elizabeth pressed on. “Do they sell it at Faraday’s store? Perhaps we should buy a bottle. I’ll tell Polly to pick some up next time she’s in town.”
“It does not come from Faraday’s,” Mr. Throckmorton said, his color growing higher and higher. “I purchased it through the hospital.”
“Ah, the hospital,” Elizabeth sighed and sank.
For a change, Alexandra perked up. “Is there a hospital in town?”
True to form, her mother caught her breath and glowered as if someone had uttered an obscene word.
Elizabeth merely blinked. “Of course there’s a hospital in town,” she said. “I’m surprised no one has told you about it yet, dear cousin.”