by Merry Farmer
The two of them shared a sympathetic laugh. “If anyone can win Lady E’s hand,” Marshall said, “it’s Jason. He’s the only man I know with enough determination to break through that fine lady’s defenses.”
“He’ll never do it,” Lawrence contradicted him. “Lady E. gains nothing by marrying. I hate to see Jason suffer over her.”
“Five pounds say we’ll be standing up with him before the end of the year,” Marshall countered.
“What’s this about five pounds?”
Their bet was interrupted as Jason himself strode up to the table, looking like a gentleman who had a burr up his backside.
“Marshall here has just bet me five pounds that you’ll have Lady E. at the altar before the end of the year,” Lawrence said without any thought as to how their friend would take being made the center of a wager.
Much to Marshall’s surprise, Jason smiled. “That’s a bet you would lose, Lawrence. I will convince Lady E. to marry me.”
“I’m sure you will,” Lawrence said, his tone suggesting anything but.
Jason turned and waved to the barkeep, who instantly pulled a pint for him the way he had for Marshall.
“How did it go at the Hall?” Lawrence asked, sending a sly glance Marshall’s way.
Jason’s smile died as he took a seat. “Once again, I failed to speak to Lady E. alone. Her mother invited some wretched dandy and his mother for tea. Mrs. Crimpley was there too, which meant I had to listen to an earful about how horrible the hotel is and how it interrupts the town’s view and will cause crime and delinquency.”
“Is that so?” Marshall laughed. Lawrence laughed with him. The mayor’s wife thought a new display of bonnets at the milliner’s would cause crime and delinquency.
“She can winge all she likes,” Jason went on, taking his beer from the barkeep when it was delivered. “The hotel will go forward with or without her approval, and it will be a smashing success.”
“Here, here,” Marshall said, raising his glass.
Jason and Lawrence raised theirs as well—though Lawrence’s was already empty—and toasted. Marshall and Jason drank.
“Oh, and is it you I have to thank for sending Dr. Alexandra Dyson my way?” Marshall asked after he finished off his pint. He was almost ready to turn and head for home now.
“Was it?” Jason asked in turn. He shrugged. “I mentioned that you needed help at the hospital and—”
“Oh bloody hell,” Marshall interrupted. He sat suddenly straight, dread washing through him. “I left her there. I left that woman at the hospital, running around after patients, without so much as saying goodbye.” Hard guilt twisted his stomach.
Jason and Lawrence laughed. It was like old times, only with more responsibility heaped on all of their shoulders. Well, on Marshall’s and Jason’s shoulders. Marshall still wasn’t convinced Lawrence had shouldered an ounce of worry in his life.
“Don’t you think you’d better go find her before old Garforth stuffs her full of gruel and wraps her knuckles?” Jason asked.
Marshall grunted. “She might at that. That old battleax would never let us rest.”
“She couldn’t let us rest,” Lawrence countered. “She knew that if she did, we would run circles around her.”
“We ran circles around her anyway,” Jason added.
They shared another companionable chuckle. Something deep in Marshall’s chest unwound. It was good to have both of his friends back where he could enjoy a pint with them after a hard day. He and Lawrence had met up when they could, but their lives, taken individually, were so different. It took Jason to make the magic work. The three of them together were better than any two of them apart.
“Well, lads,” Marshall said, slapping the table and standing. “I might not be able to rescue Dr. Alexandra this evening, but I’ve been told I have a house that is floating away on a wave of wash-water and suds. I’d better go home while I have a home to go to.”
“Poor man,” Jason said with a solemn nod.
Marshall patted him on the back as he pulled his aching body out of the pub chair and prepared to go.
“Keep me informed about your grand endeavors, Jason. I have a bet to win,” he said, then turned to go.
Lawrence
It was painful to watch such a good friend in so much pain. Both of them. Marshall dragged his feet out the pub door, looking like he was pulling half a ton of bricks after him.
“Strange how so many believe that a woman is the solution to a man’s problems,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Seems to me that they can cause more harm than good.”
Jason laughed, bitter and knowing, and took a long swig from his pint.
“I’m sorry, let me clarify,” Lawrence said, catching his mistake. “Women are wonderful. They are Nature’s perfect gift to this world. They should rightfully be worshiped as the goddesses they are. But marriage, on the other hand….”
“Are you going to start spouting all of your anti-matrimonial propaganda?” Jason asked, leaning back in his own chair.
“Marriage is a false institution, created by patriarchal religion as a means to control one spouse or the other,” Lawrence said.
“So the answer is yes, then.” Jason arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms.
“It is a paper construct,” Lawrence went on, as passionate about his beliefs as he was about tweaking his friend’s nose. “Its very nature is binding, constricting. A true union of male and female souls can only be achieved by physical, mental, and spiritual consent, a consent that has nothing to do with rules or laws.”
“Beyond nature’s law,” Jason finished his thought.
“Exactly.”
The two of them had had this discourse enough times in the past—in the past two weeks, even—that Jason was well-versed in all of Lawrence’s beliefs. Lawrence had the feeling that his old friend understood the philosophical arguments of hedonism, but that he, like so many, was held back by the constraints of society. Lawrence would have thought that being raised under the unique form of martial law that they’d been bent and nearly broken to would have wanted to make all of them cry out and struggle against those kinds of bonds for the rest of their days. Jason was different, though, and for the life of him, Lawrence had yet to figure out how.
“You’re only saying all that because Marshall is unhappy in his marriage,” Jason said. “If he was a blissful husband and doting father, you’d be sitting there telling me how glorious marriage is and how we should all rush headlong into it.”
“I would not,” Lawrence argued. “And for the record, Marshall is a doting father.”
“He is,” Jason agreed with a nod.
“As will you be, someday.”
Jason snorted. “Not at the rate I’m going.”
Deep sympathy expanded through Lawrence’s chest. “Why must it be Lady E?” he asked. “Why not some nice shop girl or…or that lovely new maid you hired this morning?”
Jason shot him a wary look—one that hid as much as it revealed.
“Don’t talk to me about maids or shop girls or ladies,” he said, sinking back into his chair with a wince. “Just the thought of them starts my mind wandering down paths I can’t afford to traverse.”
“No?” Lawrence studied his friend. Something was wrong. Marshall was right about him being highly-strung, but it was more than that. He shrugged. “At least you have the hotel to keep you occupied.”
“Yes,” Jason said, letting out a breath. “And it will be a small miracle if everything is in place for the opening in a few weeks.”
“It will work,” Lawrence said. “Your whole life, you’ve always made things work. One way or another.”
Jason nodded, sad and solemn. He stared at his empty pint glass on the tabletop. “Most things.”
Outside the pub window, the street had grown dark as night fell. Clouds had moved in, and now light spits of rain were streaking the windows. Lawrence didn’t mind a walk in the rain now and then, in fact, he enjo
yed it. But he had a long way to go before he could rest his weary head.
“I should go and so should you,” he told Jason, standing.
“You’re right,” Jason said, pushing himself to his feet. He reached into the pocket of his buttoned-up coat and took out a bill, tossing it on the table. Jason threw around pound notes the way that children spun pennies in the street. “Dwelling on it will only make things worse,” he said as the two of them headed for the pub door together.
If only Lawrence could be entirely sure of what ‘it’ was.
They parted once they were in the street, Jason fixing his hat on his head and walking swiftly down the road to his hotel. Lawrence glanced up at the sky, then turned his steps to the road that led out of town and down a half mile to his forge. He was in no hurry. The May rain was cool and held the promise of flowers and grass. He smiled at it as he walked. It happened that a few of the fine citizens of Brynthwaite flinched at that smile and turned up their noses. One older woman even crossed over to the other side of the street. Lawrence could only laugh at her.
He picked up his pace once he passed the train station and the last few buildings at the edge of town. The train was long gone. It’d taken some things away with it and brought others, just as each new day and night did. Long ago, Lawrence had learned that it was best to ebb and flow with Nature instead of fighting her. Even the worst nights in the orphanage held lessons in them. You could fight against them and bury frustration deep in your soul, like Jason did, or you could let them pile and pile on top of you until they were likely to bury you alive, like Marshall. He chose to learn from them. And each little thing he learned helped him to find his place in the world more thoroughly.
His concern for his friends was still there, mixed with the molten stuff of his spirit, as he approached the forge. His workplace and home always had the faint red-orange glow of heat and life, of possibility and malleability. The forge itself had to be kept lit in order for the furnace to stay hot enough for him to do his work. Young Oliver Fulbright, a fellow orphan and a simpleton, by many people’s account, was there, as often as not, tending it with the single-minded devotion that his peculiarity instilled in him. The boy didn’t speak, but he knew everything there was to know about furnaces and fire, about metal and its working.
It wasn’t Oliver who stood under the overhanging roof covering the forge now, though.
Lawrence stopped, rain pelting down on him, and blinked to be sure what he was seeing was true. There, shivering under his roof, clothes ragged and hair wet and streaming, stood a young woman, staring at the fire.
“Hello?” Lawrence said, picking up his pace.
The young woman gasped and twisted to him, jumping back. Fear was bright in her eyes. Her face was bruised and her lip split and puffy on one side.
As soon as he was under the roof and out of the rain, Lawrence changed his tactics. He slowed his approach and held his hands out to the poor thing, reassuring her with a soft, “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”
The young woman took another half-step back, swaying closer to the hot forge, so Lawrence stopped where he was. In truth, she was standing too close to the fire. She had to have felt it, but rather than shrink away, she stayed right where she was. He looked her over as carefully as he could without alarming her. She had bare arms which also showed bruises and cuts. Her feet were visible under the ragged hem of her skirt, blistered and bloody.
“You’re hurt,” he said. “Let me help you.”
She didn’t answer, only stared at him. He dared to take another step toward her. This time she didn’t back away.
“My home is upstairs, above the forge. Will you come up there with me so I can take a look at your wounds and clean your feet?”
Still the young woman said nothing. She had to be about twenty. It was hard to tell what color her hair and eyes were in the dark of night by the light of the forge. She was skinny though, too skinny for a woman her age.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, stepping closer. She took in a breath and looked at him, met his eyes. “What is your name?”
She pursed her lips together several times, as if working up the will to speak.
At last she said, “I don’t know.”
Episode Two - A Dangerous Corner
Matty
His breath stank of alcohol, sour sausage, and rotten teeth. She struggled to get away, but it was no use, he was stronger than her. She kicked and fought anyhow. The sound of his grumbling snarl was like the bark of a dog in her ear. She had to get away. Death was already in the air, the scent of blood sharp. She had to fight, to flee. She had to, but he was stronger than her. Fear. She could only feel fear and dread and…and heat. Yes. Heat. So hot. She twisted and pushed backward toward the heat. His scream echoed, hollow and distant, in her head. He let go. She kicked and swung and struggled free. She ran.
Matty woke up with a gasp, still kicking, still flailing. The whimper coming from her own throat startled her to stillness. She sucked in a breath, blinking until her eyes opened fully and focused on the ceiling above her. A simple, beamed ceiling hung with bunches of herbs and dried flowers. She wasn’t at home. Where was she?
She drew in a breath as sleep left her completely and the real world became more real. The air was scented with the herbs above her, with the crispness of fresh linen, the tang of something warm and metallic. She let out her breath and forced in another one, then another, and another. Calm. She had to be calm. She was safe here, she would be all right. Who had told her that?
“Are you well?” a groggy voice said beside her. A man’s voice, deep and gentle.
Her heart raced all over again, but when she twisted to look at the man in bed beside her, memories came rushing back. Well, a few memories.
“Your name is Lawrence,” she said slowly, sitting up and hugging herself. She wore a man’s shirt—Lawrence’s shirt—and an old pair of man’s long underwear that was too big for her.
“That’s right,” the man—Lawrence—said, sitting up with her. He wore no shirt—his chest strong and broad and his arms corded with muscles—and a pair of breeches. “And your name is Matty?”
Was it? She breathed in, thought. Yes, it was. That much had come back to her the night before, once he’d gotten a bowl of soup into her. She nodded.
“Good morning, Matty,” Lawrence said, sleepy face breaking into a kind smile. “Would you like some tea?” He hopped out of bed—the bed they had shared—and stepped over to a bowl of water on a table under a tiny window that showed the barest patch of dawn. He splashed and scrubbed his face, then took up a towel to dry it.
“Yes,” she answered. She was sure of that much too.
Bit by bit, snatches of the night before came back to her. It had been raining. She had walked for a long time. She didn’t remember how long or where from or how she had ended up at the forge. All she remembered was the feel of the heat, the glow of the coals that had drawn her. She hadn’t even realized she’d come out of the rain to stand under the roof sheltering the great furnace with its smoldering coals until Lawrence had strolled down the lane and spoken to her.
Lawrence Smith. The blacksmith. She hadn’t been afraid of him. He’d asked her who she was and where she’d come from, and she hadn’t had an answer for him. Everything after that was a blur. He had taken her in, through the workshop behind the forge and up a narrow flight of stairs to this room. It was a large room, the size of the entire building underneath it, but it held everything from a kitchen table and cooking stove to bookshelves and a couch to a bed with a chest at the foot. Lawrence lived there, by himself, everything he could possibly want within arm’s reach. He had told her that with such joy in his eyes.
She shifted to slide her legs over the side of the bed with the intent to stand. That intent faded when she saw her feet. They were bandaged. Her hands were bandaged as well, come to think of it. She hadn’t remembered that they were injured until now. As soon as she realized it, the ache and throb
of a dozen more injuries filled her senses. Where had she sustained all of these bruises and why did every muscle in her body pain her as though she’d been battered in a storm?
Her feet hurt worst of all. She winced as she set them on the floor and gingerly tested her weight on them.
“Careful,” Lawrence cautioned her from the stove. He finished shoveling a load of coal into its belly and poking the banked embers to bring the fire back to life, then stood and crossed the room to her. “Your feet are covered in blisters, and you’ve a few cuts that concern me. Walking through mud in cut feet is not a very good idea.”
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically.
Lawrence laughed, a warm, gentle laugh. “You’ve nothing to be sorry about. I have the feeling it wasn’t your fault that you went out without shoes, or that you walked so far.”
“I….” She wanted to give an answer, but her mind hit up against nothing, like walking into a closed door and not being able to open it.
“Never mind,” Lawrence said. He scooped his strong arm under hers and around her back and supported her as she stood and walked to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “You just sit down and wait for the kettle to boil, and in the meantime, I’ll take a look at those feet of yours again. Time to judge my handiwork.”
Matty let out a breath as she sat, relieved to be off her throbbing feet. She stayed where she was and let Lawrence lift one foot to gently unwind the bandage. The bandage, at least, was clean, even though what he revealed underneath it was ugly and frightening. Her foot was nearly black with dirt and dried blood and bruises, except for angry red patches where blisters had popped or were raised in protest to whatever walking she’d done. The cool air that hit them was both a blessing and a curse as it made them sting so badly she winced.
“There, there,” Lawrence soothed her, letting the first foot go, then taking up the other one. “It’s bad, but the herbs will do their work.”
Biting her lip, Matty looked closer at her feet. It wasn’t dirt that covered them, it was some kind of paste made with crushed leaves. She could smell it now, a pungent, herby scent.