“Do you suppose Dr. Pycroft forced himself on her?” one of the women who hadn’t spoken yet asked.
Her question was met by hums and tsks of derision. “A woman low enough to take on a profession likely asked for it,” the second woman said with a sniff.
“Ladies, can I get you anything?” Flossie moved to interrupt the conversation, her voice tight with fury and her smile likely a little too bright.
The ladies jumped as though they knew they’d been overheard.
“Oh, no, Mrs—I mean, Miss Stowe,” the first lady said. The glint of gossip in her eyes hinted that as soon as Flossie stepped way, the women would fall into whispers about her low character and her relationship with Jason in the grossest possible terms.
“Everything looks lovely,” the quiet woman said, a hint of embarrassment in her smile.
Flossie nodded and stepped away to check on the other guests, but the conversation wasn’t much better a few tables down.
“And you know what they say about lower-class men,” said a middle-aged woman wearing a tea dress with the highest, tightest collar that Flossie had ever seen.
“They’re insatiable,” her slightly older friend whispered.
“Oh, dear,” the youngest woman at the table said, cheeks pink, fanning herself. “What I wouldn’t give for my Bernard to be insatiable.”
The others at the table made sounds of agreement.
“I’ve seen Dr. Pycroft at work,” the fourth woman at the table said. “Those hands. That smile. He always has a devilish glimmer in his eyes.”
“No wonder Dr. Dyson was on her back in a trice,” the middle-aged woman said.
“I would be too,” her friend agreed. She leaned closer to the others. “They say that lower-class men are bigger than normal men.”
The ladies dissolved into fits of giggles.
“It’s no wonder Dr. Dyson is already with child,” the younger woman said. “I bet they’ve been at it so much that she’s having twins. Triplets, even.”
“Is that how twins are conceived?” the fourth woman asked with a curious grin. “By excessive activity after the seed is already planted?”
“It must be,” the younger woman said, then burst into more giggles.
Flossie didn’t bother asking if the women needed anything. They needed a swift smack upside the head. Anyone who was idiot enough to believe twins were got by excessive love-making was a twit. If that were true, she’d likely give birth to a litter of twelve in the spring.
But it wasn’t the ignorance of the upper classes that irritated Flossie. The more she listened in on conversations, the more it became clear to her that half of the ladies or more had only come to the tea to study Alex and gossip about her condition. She wasn’t about to stand for her friend being objectified in that sort of way.
“I think you’d better start your speech,” she whispered to Alex when she’d made her way to the head table.
Alex was looking greener than ever. Her tea was untouched, and she’d only taken a nibble out of one of her sandwiches. “I think you’re right,” she replied. “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll last.”
She moved to stand, but was forced to pause and lean heavily against the table for a moment. She swallowed convulsively before falling into her seat again. Flossie saw the writing on the wall and gestured toward the nearest maid, but neither of them was quick enough to act before Alex doubled to the side and cast up whatever breakfast she’d had on Lady Ramsey’s skirt.
Alexandra
“Good heavens,” Lady Ramsey exclaimed as Alex heaved a second time.
It was a blessing and a curse that Alex had so little in her stomach that her second heave produced very little. The damage was already done, though. Lady Ramsey pushed her chair back loudly and stood, moaning and flicking her serviette at the sick spot on her skirt as though it would expand and attack her.
“I’m so sorry,” Alexa managed to get out as her eyes stung and filled with tears. She wobbled unsteadily to her feet and reached for Lady Ramsey, but the woman backpedaled as though Alex were a plague carrier instead of expecting. “I’m so terribly—” She was unable to say more. Her stomach lurched and she was forced to clap a hand to her mouth to stop herself from vomiting a third time.
The ladies who had come for tea gasped and squealed, rising from their chairs and attempting to get as far from Alex as they could.
“It’s all right,” Flossie said, arms outstretched, doing her best to calm them all. “Dr. Dyson is not contagious. My staff will have this straightened out in a trice.”
“Contagious or not, I don’t see how any respectable woman can be asked to endure this embarrassment,” Lady Ramsey wailed, as though she had been mortally wronged.
“Dora, please help Lady Ramsey,” Flossie directed one of her maids. Her entire staff had already burst into action, tidying up the table where Alex had been sitting and rushing to settle the guests who were either brave enough to stay or too startled to flee, like some of their friends.
Alex gripped the back of her chair, squeezing her eyes shut and praying it would all go away. Since Marshall had departed for London—before that, if she were being honest with herself—she had lain awake at night, imagining all of the horrible, embarrassing ways the realities of her new life could cause humiliation for her. Now here she was, living out that humiliation.
“Here, drink this.” Flossie’s quiet words snapped Alex’s eyes open. Flossie held a steaming teacup with the aroma of ginger about it. Alex had no idea where the tea had come from. Flossie was a magician when it came to having exactly the right things on hand at the right time.
“I don’t think I could,” Alex admitted, taking the cup anyhow. She attempted to sip, but her mind and stomach rebelled at the thought, so she set the cup on the table.
Something had to be done. Lady Ramsey had been taken off to the side of the room by a pair of her friends and the maid Dora, but the rest of the guests had resumed their seats. They were split between watching Lady Ramsey—who continued to groan—and eyeing Alex as though she would combust at any moment. Alex was ready to give up and call the whole thing off, but before she could form the words, her gaze settled on Lady Arabella at the table farthest away from her. Arabella was the only woman in the room who appeared fully sympathetic and anxious for Alex’s sake.
“I suppose being sick is not the best way to begin an appeal on behalf of the hospital,” Alex said, moved by determination alone. “Although one could argue that it does underscore the vital importance of the hospital to our community.”
The ladies spread out in front of her remained completely silent, their expressions ranging from shock to disgust to bewilderment. Alex’s stomach threatened to embarrass her again, and she wasn’t certain where morning sickness ended and pure terror began.
She gripped the back of her chair with white knuckles and took a deep breath. The scents of sugar and tuna and cheese mingled with perfume and hot-house flowers threatened to undo her, but she soldiered on.
“I had a speech prepared highlighting the uses and accomplishments of the hospital as well as its needs,” she said, unable to speak as loudly as she should. “For obvious reasons, I feel I am unable to deliver that speech. But it is my hope that you will find it in your hearts to come to your own conclusions and to realize the importance that your financial contributions have to our efforts at Brynthwaite Hospital.”
She paused to take a breath and to fight down the urge to be sick again. Her whole body ached with weariness. Before she could go on, one of the women at the table beside where Arabella sat raised her hand.
“I take it this incident serves as proof that you are, in fact, with child?” the woman asked, before Alex could acknowledge her, in a tone of utter superiority and coldness.
All eyes snapped to Alex as if hungry for the confirmation of the latest morsel of gossip. Not a single woman among them looked at Alex as an equal. Even the brittle tolerance she had formerly been met with by ladies
of the class she was born into when discussing her medical vocation was gone. They looked at her as a pariah, a curiosity, something to be disapproved of, as though she wore a clapboard sign around her neck declaring, “Behold! The woman who married down.”
Nausea kept Alex from doing more than tearing up at the accusation—and it was clearly an accusation. It was Flossie who stepped up to her side and said, “Dr. Dyson is hosting this tea party in order to garner support for our hospital. The delicacy of her condition is far from an appropriate topic of conversation.”
Flossie was absolutely correct. She spoke with gentle authority and compassion. Her bravery at stepping up to begin with was wholly commendable. And Alex knew in an instant Flossie would be ripped to shreds right along with her.
“Who are you to lecture us?” Mrs. Crimpley said, sitting ramrod straight, a bright gleam in her eyes that said she’d been waiting for months to burst forth with everything she was about to say. “You may think you’re the queen of all you survey because you have wheedled your way into getting Mr. Throckmorton to entrust this hotel to your management—and we all know how you accomplished that—but you are nothing more than a jumped-up strumpet who has given herself airs.”
“And she’s carrying Mr. Throckmorton’s bastard,” Miss Garrett added in a stage whisper.
A ripple of shock and gasps spread through the ladies. One by one, they rose from their tables, abandoning the glorious treats Flossie and her staff had prepared for them, and marched toward the door. Alex’s heart bled for her friend, but when she turned to Flossie, she found her looking alarmed rather than angry or ashamed.
“Where do you ninnies think you’re going?” Lady Waltham shouted, rushing to try to stop several women. “Dr. Dyson and Miss Stowe both do fine work. They’ve accomplished more in their lives so far than most of you lot put together,” she insisted, fire in her eyes. “You should be falling all over yourself to donate money to the hospital and to follow their examples to make something of yourselves.”
“By debasing ourselves with orphans?” one of the fleeing ladies demanded of her. “They should be ashamed of themselves for behaving no better than common whores.”
Another of the departing women gasped at the harsh language. Nothing could stop the tea party from falling apart in spectacular fashion then.
“Women have a right to express their sexuality in any way they see fit,” Lady Waltham went on, following the fleeing guest to continue proselytizing her unique brand of morality. “The cult of the virgin has done more damage to the hearts and minds of the young women of Britain than any profession or employment ever could.”
Alex sank heavily into her chair, grateful beyond measure that Lady Waltham took her strong words and unpopular philosophies out of the ballroom and, if she was lucky, the hotel. The event had been an unmitigated disaster. Flossie seemed to know it as well. She flopped into the chair Lady Ramsey had vacated and reached for a particularly fat lemon tart from the tea stand in the center of the table.
“That went well,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm, and bit angrily into the tart.
Alex could only rest her elbows on the table and moan as she buried her face in her hands. “What am I going to do?” she groaned as her tears flowed.
“I’m sure there are other means of revenue,” Flossie sighed, her voice sticky with tart. “Jason probably knows a few London philanthropists who might send donations. Perhaps Marshall could delay his homecoming until he’s spoken to a few of them.”
Alex cried harder at the mention of Marshall. She couldn’t have cared less about raising money for the hospital, although she knew that should have been her highest priority. Her heart shattered into a million, hopeless pieces every time she thought of Marshall.
He’d been gone for nearly a month now. For nearly a month, Alex had carried on without him, tackling the demands of the hospital alone. But work was a delight compared to the melancholy that descended on her when she was at home by herself. She missed his witty conversation. She missed his cooking, though necessity had caused her to improve rapidly on that score. She lay in bed at night, staring at his pillow, reaching for the cold spot on the sheets where he should have been. She missed his body, which filled her with a humiliating combination of guilt and longing. It was all maddening in the extreme, because she still couldn’t convince herself that she loved him. Love had nothing to do with losing a piece of who you were.
“Dr. Dyson?”
Arabella’s quiet question jerked Alex out of her painful thoughts. She sniffled her way into proper posture and wiped her eyes with the back of her gloved hands. Dread poured through her as she waited for what George’s bride would say.
“Yes?” she managed to squeak out, forcing herself to meet Arabella’s eyes.
“I’m so sorry that things didn’t go as planned,” Arabella said in a soft whisper. Her cheeks were as red as apples, as though she were the one who had suffered the crippling embarrassment and not Alex.
“I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped,” Alex said, unable to summon any facial expression at all.
“Still,” Arabella went on, fumbling with her purse. “I’m very, very sorry.” She managed to pry apart the clasp of her purse and took out a neat fold of bills. “I brought this to give you,” she went on, handing the money over. “For the hospital.”
Alex accepted the gift and blinked up at her in surprise.
“It isn’t much,” she went on, lowering her eyes. “George took over our finances as soon as we were married. The allowance he gives me is….” Her words drifted off, and for a moment Alex could have sworn the beautiful, young woman was more miserable than she was. “I want the hospital to have this,” she said, seeming to gather herself a bit. “Because you were right,” she added, her voice wavering.
“I…was?” Alex blinked, frowning at the money, then at Arabella.
“Arabella. What are you doing here?”
Arabella gasped and tensed as though someone had cracked a whip. She whirled around and, as she stepped aside, Alex spotted George striding through the ballroom. Flossie made a noise that sounded like a grumbled comment, but her mouth was now filled with Banbury cake.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Mrs. Pycroft,” George said, a sly grin pulling at his mouth. He slowed his steps as he approached the table, glancing around at the ruined tea party with a sniff. “What’s this I just heard about you getting started on a pack of Pycroft brats?” he asked with the supercilious sneer of a man who knew he’d hoed the ground before Marshall had planted the seeds.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Fretwell?” Flossie asked, rising and taking a threatening step toward him.
Alex was tempted to laugh at Flossie’s fierceness and at the way George flinched. But George recovered quickly.
“Mrs. Pycroft isn’t the only cat about to have kittens, from what I’ve just heard,” George went on. He glanced between Alex and Flossie. “How fitting that the whores have befriended each other.”
“George,” Arabella hissed, eyes wide with offense.
“Shut up,” George told her without even looking at her. He rubbed his fingers over his mouth before saying, “Are you certain it’s Pycroft’s? I hear educated women are free with their favors.”
Any lingering nausea Alex felt turned into pure hatred. “How dare you suggest I would be unfaithful to my husband,” she snapped, knowing full well George was asking if the baby was his. She was determined to make him see that he meant nothing to her now. “I think you should leave.”
“I think we should too,” he said, sending a sideways glance in Arabella’s direction without actually looking at her. “Arabella. Come.”
He turned to go. Arabella followed like an obedient puppy—one who had been kicked a few too many times. Horror filled Alex’s insides. George was a bounder and a cad, but he wouldn’t actually be cruel to Arabella, would he? Arabella bore no bruises, at least not that Alex could see, but there were other methods of cruelty besides infl
icting bodily harm. Flashes of the few times George had bedded her came to mind, and along with them memories of things he’d done that she’d thought were standard, until Marshall had taught her better. Yes, there were far too many ways a man could abuse his wife, ways society approved of.
The terrible thought rang in Alex’s heart. Alex had tried to warn the poor woman not to marry George, and Arabella had just told her she’d been right.
“Oh.” George stopped halfway across the room, turning back to her. “Your mother is going to be so proud when she hears you’re making her a grandmother so very soon after your wedding.” His tone implied she’d be the exact opposite. He laughed and continued out of the ballroom.
“That man is the foulest prick that ever besmirched this town with his shite-smelling smile,” Flossie said, resuming her seat and reaching for the teapot in the middle of the table.
“He’s a fucking arse pillock sodding bastard,” Alex agreed, so relieved to be able to use vulgar language that she burst into laughter as she sat. “And a few more choice words I’ve heard at the hospital that I can’t remember right now.”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Flossie asked, raising her eyebrows in a devilish look of camaraderie.
“Immensely,” Alex sighed. It did not, however, feel good enough for her to forget even a shred of her problems. She slumped in her seat, rubbing the ache that was forming in her head.
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it,” Flossie said. She reached across the table and moved the now cool cup of ginger tea closer to Alex, then picked up her own freshly-poured cup.
“If what’s worth it?” Alex asked, risking a sip of the ginger tea. It didn’t cause a disaster, so she continued sipping.
“Sometimes I want to give up all the glory and responsibility and just be Jason’s wife,” Flossie went on.
Alex’s eyes popped wide. “No! Do you?”
Flossie hummed and nodded. Then took another gulp of tea. “It would be so much easier not to swim against the current of social opinion. Jason would drop Lady E and marry me in a second if I asked him to.”
The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Two Page 2