The Brynthwaite Boys - Season One - Part Three

by Merry Farmer

  “Not yet,” Elizabeth answered with a sigh. Alex let out a breath in relief and focused on finishing with her uncle’s bandages. “But I have decided to take things into my own hands.”

  Cold prickles of wariness sizzled down Alex’s back, and she glanced up at her cousin through lowered lashes. So the game hadn’t been dropped after all. If the spark in Elizabeth’s eyes was any indication, it had grown more intense. Alex was seized by the sudden urge to warn Flossie about…something.

  “What are you plotting?” Uncle Gerald asked the question that Alex could not.

  Elizabeth replied with a cheery smile. “Oh, only an offer that he cannot refuse.”

  If Alex had any compassion at all, she would not only warn Flossie, she would urge Mr. Throckmorton to close the hotel and emigrate to Australia.

  “But never mind about me.” Elizabeth stood and crossed to stand between Alex and Lady Charlotte, still ensconced in the window seat. “What was all the fuss I heard as I was coming down the hall?”

  In a flash, Alex’s defenses were up once more.

  “Your dear cousin Alexandra refuses to return to Hampshire with me after Anthony and I wed,” Lady Charlotte explained.

  “Is that true?” Elizabeth blinked at Alex, eyes alight with the fun of a conflict.

  “It is,” Alex answered. She had finished with the bandages, and there was nothing she could do but stand and face her cousin. “I have a responsibility to the hospital to think about.”

  “But no one cares about that,” Elizabeth said, gesturing as if to brush away a fly.

  Those words were like an arrow through Alex’s heart. “I care,” she insisted. “It is more than just a responsibility to the hospital, it is a responsibility to the people of Brynthwaite.”

  “I’m sure the people of Brynthwaite don’t care either,” Elizabeth laughed. “It’s not as though Dr. Pycroft would have trouble finding another physician to take your place.”

  Alex’s jaw dropped. It was several seconds before she could gather herself enough to say, “Dr. Pycroft had a hard enough time finding me to take the position at the hospital, considering what the hospital can afford pay.”

  “Oh.” Elizabeth blinked. “Then perhaps I should provide them with the funds to replace you.”

  Alex shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I love being a physician. I love my position at Brynthwaite Hospital. I would have thought that you, of all people, would support me in this, Elizabeth.”

  Undaunted, Elizabeth sighed. “I would have supported you, but I have bigger plans to throw my energy into now.”

  “So I was only ever an outlet for your mischief?” Alex gaped.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, no,” Elizabeth went on. “But with Mr. Throckmorton so close to capitulating, with the way his business empire is expanding, chances are I will be in London most of the time going forward and far too busy to concern myself with the affairs of country doctors way up here in Cumbria.”

  Every one of her words was a tiny, burning wound. Alex had been so certain she had a female ally. The betrayal of Elizabeth’s lack of concern was harder to bear than her mother’s obstinacy, if only because it was so unexpected.

  “See here now,” Uncle Gerald burst into the discussion. “Even if you do marry that hotelier, I won’t have you spending all your time in London, my girl. Not while I’m alive.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of staying away from you, Father.” Elizabeth flittered to Uncle Gerald’s side and kissed his cheek. “But what I lack here in Cumbria is appropriate society. You know full well that I have longed to take my place amongst the highest of the high.”

  “I know,” Uncle Gerald sighed. “I would have chaperoned you in London myself after your presentation, but for these stupid legs of mine.”

  “That’s quite all right, Father. I forgive you.” She kissed him again and pet his head.

  Alex fought to swallow her grunt of disgust. Elizabeth was as cunning a snake as any she’d ever seen. In no time, she would twist Uncle Gerald around her finger and have him dancing to her tune, legs or no legs.

  With a sharp intake of breath, a plan struck her. “Let Elizabeth go to London all she wants,” Alex said. “I shall stay here with you to care for you, Uncle Gerald.”

  “What?” Her mother stood at last, face pinched in alarm.

  “It’s the ideal solution. Elizabeth can enjoy London high society, Mother and Mr. Fretwell can have their idyllic life in Hampshire, and I will stay here and see to your medical and social needs. I could do that and continue my work at the hospital simultaneously.”

  The burst of euphoria that her plan brought with it died a quick death when her uncle said, “You will not,” with such ferocity that Alex stepped back.

  “But, Uncle Gerald.”

  “I refuse to hear of it,” her uncle went on. “I disapprove of your wild ways, young woman, and I would sooner see myself living alone in a sheepfold, having my wounds licked by wild dogs than let you continue in your lunacy. You will return to Hampshire with your mother, find a man, and marry.”

  “I will not,” Alex protested. “I will stay here and continue my work at the hospital.”

  “Not if you wish to stay under my roof, you won’t,” Uncle Gerald said.

  A stab of fear and grief sliced at Alex’s heart. She glanced at the three who watched her—Uncle Gerald with stalwart stubbornness, her mother with a grin of triumph, and Elizabeth with only the barest hint of regret for her. Not one of them would stand behind her. Not one of them cared one bit who she was or who she was desperate to be.

  “I see,” Alex said. She stepped to the side, ready to retreat from the room. “None of you will support me in this.”

  “No,” Uncle Gerald said.

  “It’s for the best, my dear,” her mother followed.

  “I would,” Elizabeth rounded up the betrayals, “but I will soon be much engaged elsewhere.”

  Alex nodded, bitterness filling her chest. “Then I have no choice.” Her voice cracked with the words. She could fight for what she wanted, exhaust and bloody herself in the process, and lose her family, her home, and her security, or she could accept this latest blow of fate and retreat to Hampshire with her tail between her legs.

  God help her, she had no intention of retreating.

  “If you will excuse me,” she said, turning to leave the room. “There are people waiting in Brynthwaite who have actual need of me, who genuinely wish for me to use my skills to help and heal them. Good day.”

  Without waiting for a reply from any of them, she turned on her heel and marched out.

  Flossie

  “Are you certain this is a good idea,” Flossie asked, arranging the last of her belongings—a cheaply framed photograph of her parents and a polished stone her nephew had given her—on the bookshelf in the main room of Jason’s suite.

  “Yes,” Jason clipped as he crossed the room, leafing through a stack of papers. “The staff all knows what we’re about, and we’re going to need your room downstairs for the servants of these holiday-makers.” Before she could mount another protest, he went on with, “I’ve booked us a long weekend at a seaside inn in Silecroft for a fortnight from now, once that party leaves. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  Flossie cast a doubtful glance over her shoulder and moved to take the last armful of her clothing into the bedroom. “A weekend by the sea,” she said loud enough for him to hear her even after she’d crossed into the bedroom. “If that doesn’t set everyone talking, I don’t know what will.”

  “They’re already talking,” Jason called from the other room, adding, “Damn them.”

  Flossie hummed, partially in agreement, partially with wariness.

  She shouldn’t be so cagey about everyone at the hotel knowing the nature of her relationship with Jason. She shouldn’t be caught up on the idea of publically moving into Jason’s suite either. Most of her clothes were already stored in Jason’s wardr
obe and bureau. The few things she’d kept in her room in the staff wing were seldom used, turning that room into more of a closet than a living space. And Jason was right, both about them needing the space and about there being no point in pretending things were other than they were.

  Still, it was one thing to be aware that everyone knew her business and another entirely to actively engage in the scandal of living with a man, her employer, and holidaying with him without being married.

  Then again, she thought with a sigh as she returned to the main room where Jason was waiting by the open door to the hall, back home and when she worked at Crestmont Grange, she could name half a dozen couples or more who ignored the sacred bonds of marriage in favor of the practical bonds of a marital partnership.

  Not that she was daring enough to assume her connection with Jason had reached that level of understanding.

  “Lady E. says that we should expect eight couples,” Jason went on with hotel business, eyes barely flickering up from the papers in his hands as the two of them marched out of the suite and into the upstairs hall, “but she seemed equally as certain that more than eight rooms will be needed.”

  “Why?” Flossie asked as the two of them started down the stairs. “Because some of those couples can’t abide rooming with each other?”

  Jason sent her a sideways smirk. Flossie coughed. It had less to do with the lingering effects of the influenza—which she’d managed to sail through much quicker and with far fewer lingering complications than Jason had—and more to do with the spark in his eyes. After more than two weeks of being ill or recovering, the spring was back in Jason’s step and the determination once more wrapped around him like a mantel. Along with his black coat.

  They reached the marble floor of the lobby, and continued toward the desk—where Samuel leaned as he consulted Gerry, one of the porters—and the door to Jason’s office.

  “No, Lady E. tells me that this particular circle of friends is notorious for hangers-on, and that they tend to gather more merry-makers wherever they go. She tells me to be certain to have a large stock of fine wine and spirits on hand.” He paused as they neared the desk. “I rather think it would be wise to have slightly less alcohol on the premises.”

  Flossie arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to cater to your guests needs?”

  Jason answered with a grim, “I would rather my hotel and its rooms remain intact.”

  “Ah,” Flossie answered.

  They were about to continue on when Agnes called out, “Flossie. I mean, Miss Flossie.”

  Flossie and Jason both turned to her, Jason with a frown and Flossie with her brow raised in surprise. It was the third time one of the maids had addressed her as ‘Miss’ since she’d recovered from illness and resumed her duties.

  Agnes stumbled as she skittered across the lobby, stopping to bob a curtsy several feet away from Flossie. That was new too. “Miss Flossie. You’re wanted in the kitchen. Cook has questions about tonight’s pudding.”

  “For Flossie?” Samuel asked from his spot behind the desk. He straightened, sending Gerry a knowing look. “Shouldn’t she be asking you those questions, sir?” Samuel asked Jason.

  “She can ask Flossie,” Jason said, focusing on his papers once more as he ducked behind the desk and entered his office. “I don’t care.”

  Flossie sent Samuel a smile that was a touch too gloating for her dignity, then followed Agnes back through the lobby and into the dining room.

  “Miss Flossie.” Dora stopped her before she could go more than a few steps. She was up at the top of a ladder, hanging a new set of curtains to mark the change of month to September.

  Flossie stopped to wait for her, trying not to frown. Dora was her friend. She didn’t need to add a “Miss” to her name. No more than Agnes did. It was more than that, though. Across the room, a pair of the younger maids—newer hires who split their time between the kitchen and setting the dining room—peeked at her with awe and reverence. The new porter watched her with wide eyes as well.

  “Miss Flossie,” Dora repeated as she dropped into a curtsy at Flossie’s side. “I was wondering about the tablecloths.”

  “What about them?” Flossie asked, adding, “And you’ve no need to call me “Miss” anything, Dora.”

  Dora blinked in shock. “Of course I do. You’re Mr. Throckmorton’s…well, you’re above us all.”

  Flossie blew out a breath. “I’m no more above you than I was before I fell ill.” Her bout of influenza suddenly seemed like a fine excuse to dodge the true issue behind the perceived change in her status.

  “Oh, well.” Dora hesitated, lowering her head and wringing her hands. “I just assumed that because of….” She trailed off, lifting her eyes to meet Flossie’s. Flossie had no intention of finishing Dora’s thought, and as soon as Dora recognized that, she continued with. “We can’t seem to find all of the aubergine tablecloths. I was certain we ordered enough, but they weren’t all in the store room.”

  Flossie shifted her weight, resting her hands on her hips and glancing off to the side. “Were those the ones that had been stained when the packaging ripped open during delivery?”

  Dora’s face lit up. “They were. They’re in the laundry, aren’t they?”

  “That or they were cleaned and placed in a different part of the storage closet. I can take a look after—”

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to check on something so small,” Dora stopped her.

  Flossie shook her head. “It’s my job.”

  “Heavens, no.” This time Dora laughed. “You have far more grand things to do as the boss’s—” She stopped, her cheeks going pink. “You have far more important things to do.”

  Flossie opened her mouth to set Dora straight, but thought better of it and pressed her lips shut. “Let me know if you need any help,” she sighed, and continued on with Agnes.

  The deference that Dora, Agnes, and the other maids were showing her didn’t sit easily on Flossie’s shoulders, but at the same time, she argued with herself that it had been coming on gradually, since her first week at the hotel when she had rescued Jason from the curtain situation. He had given her more and more responsibility, elevated her to a position as head maid, and entrusted her with managerial responsibilities. Perhaps it was simply the culmination of that climb that had caused the change in how she was addressed.

  “Ah, Miss Flossie,” Cook greeted her, dashing out from behind the kitchen’s long counter and wiping her hands on the towel tucked into her apron. She opened her mouth to say more, but stopped short when she came face to face with Flossie. “Or should I be calling you “Miss Stowe” now that you’re more or less the mistress of the house?”

  Flossie blinked rapidly to hide her shock. “Flossie will do.”

  “Right.” Cook nodded. “It’s just that now that you and Mr. Throckmorton are….” Her face pinched as she searched for the right word.

  “Diddling?” Richard suggested from the other side of the counter where he was flirting with one of the kitchen maids and sneaking raisins from a bowl.

  The kitchen maid giggled and slapped a hand over her mouth. Agnes turned beet red and gasped.

  “That’s enough out of you,” Cook scolded Richard.

  “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Richard continued. “Our Flossie’s only found a position that suits her, is all.”

  “Richard,” Cook shouted. “Out! This instant. You’re not supposed to be back here anyhow.”

  Flossie swallowed, watching the exchange with a growing ball of dismay in her gut. It wasn’t unexpected. She should have known there would be jokes and teasing right in along with the misplaced deference. In fact, it was only natural. If she didn’t know what to make of her new standing, then why should anyone else?

  “Yes, Richard,” she said, taking the bull by the horns. “I’m Mr. Throckmorton’s lover.”

  The entire kitchen went silent, a hiss of steam from a covered pot on the stove the only sound.<
br />
  “I’ve moved into his suite. We’re not married.” She glanced around the room, meeting the eyes of everyone from Richard to Cook to the startled maid refilling the coal scuttle at the far end of the room. “I also happen to be the head maid at the hotel, and we have a large party of guests about to descend on us at any moment. Would you rather stand here and quibble about propriety, like a bunch of nobs at a garden party, or would you rather get on with your work in order to ensure that you continue to have work to get on with?”

  Another moment of silence followed. It was punctured by Richard clearing his throat and shoving away from the counter. The maid he’d been flirting with dove back into her work as he left the kitchen, as did the maid with the coal.

  Flossie turned to Cook with a stern look. “Is this going to be a problem, Mrs. Wood?”

  “No, ma’am,” Cook answered instantly. “To each his own, that’s what I’ve always said. And if you don’t mind my saying, better you than me.”

  Before she could stop herself, a flash of a smile pulled at the corner of Flossie’s lips. It was impossible to imagine Jason taking a shine to the plump, round-cheeked woman who was old enough to be his mother. Society might have claimed to celebrate all that was good and proper and chaste, but women like Flossie and Cook—even Agnes and the poor coal maid—knew that the reality of human relations was far more complex.

  “I wanted to check with you about the puddings for this party we’re expecting,” Cook said, brushing everything else off and gesturing for Flossie to join her at the counter.

  After a discussion about what would be considered fine enough for guests of the caliber they were expecting while still economizing on ingredients—a discussion in which Flossie learned a thing or two about the price of butter and nuts—Flossie left Cook to whip her staff into shape and to focus them on what was truly important—the service of the hotel. As she crossed back through the dining room—nodding to Dora as she spread deep purple tablecloths over the small, round tables that made up the room’s normal configuration—Flossie steadied herself with the knowledge that at least Cook wouldn’t cause a fuss about her and Jason.