Her thought stopped short as she pushed open the kitchen door. The scent of smoke and blood filled the air, so much like the day her mother was killed that for a moment Matty was shocked into terrified silence. The interior walls of the kitchen were black with soot and splattered with blood. The table and chairs had been burnt to char in the center of the room, and the counter and cabinets had been hacked to bits. Only the stove was intact, probably because it was too solid to destroy.
In the midst of it, Connie sat in the corner nearest the door, hugging herself into a tight ball and shaking like a leaf. She’d gone white as a sheet as well, and her breath came in thin, ragged pants, as though she were screaming but no sound was coming out.
“Lawrence,” Matty shouted, turning toward the forge. “Help!”
She started to shake as violently as Connie as her memories rushed in on her, sharp and thick. She only just managed to force herself to go to Connie and to try to lift her sister to her feet, but between Connie’s fear and Matty’s awkwardness, all they managed was for Matty to spill to the floor with her.
Seconds later, Lawrence dashed into the kitchen. He muttered an oath as he looked around. “Hoag did this,” he said what Matty had been thinking.
Connie finally managed sound at the mention of her father’s name. She wailed like a terrified animal, clutching and clinging to Matty. “Don’t let him take me,” she cried. “Don’t let him take me again. Don’t let him make me do those things again. I can’t, I can’t.”
“We need to get her out of here,” Matty panted, appealing to Lawrence.
He rushed to them, lifting Matty to her feet first, then scooping Connie in his strong arms. Matty followed as they darted back out into the quiet, cold, undisturbed January afternoon. Lawrence didn’t stop there. He rushed Connie into the forge and up the narrow stairs to the upper room. Matty followed as fast as she could, but by the time she made it up the stairs, she was exhausted.
“Stay here,” Lawrence ordered her. “I’ll investigate. Hoag might still be around.”
Connie screamed, but Matty shook her head. “I don’t think so. The kitchen was cold. Whatever he did, it wasn’t recently.”
Lawrence’s face darkened. “He was here before I left for Grasmere. He’s been playing me like a fiddle this whole time.”
Whether he had or not, Matty didn’t know, and she wasn’t sure she cared about anything besides calming Connie down. Lawrence headed downstairs, and a moment later, Matty spotted him reentering the kitchen through one of the apartment’s windows. She hoped he found answers there.
She rushed to the bed, where Connie lay, hugging herself tightly, and did her best to fold her sister in her arms. “It’s all right,” she said. “Hoag isn’t here now. Lawrence is here, and he would never let anything happen to us.”
“I’m scared,” Connie wailed. “He’ll kill me, I know he will.”
There was nothing Matty could say that would soothe her, so she simply sat there, hugging Connie and stroking her hair until Lawrence came back. Connie jumped at the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, but softened when she saw it was him.
“It was definitely Hoag,” Lawrence told them in a grim voice. “He left a message scrawled in blood on one of the walls.”
“What did it say?” Matty asked.
Lawrence shook his head and glanced to Connie, who was still shivering and wide-eyed.
“He’s coming for us, isn’t he?” she cried.
Matty swallowed. Hoag had been coming for them for weeks now, but it seemed that fact had only just hit home for Connie.
“I want to go to Lord Waltham,” Connie wept. “I don’t care if I have to scrub pots or if they’re mean to me there. I want to hide. You said Lord Waltham could protect me.”
“I believe he can,” Lawrence said.
“Then I want to go. I want to go right now.” Connie dissolved into wild tears.
“We’ll take you, then,” Matty promised her. “You’ll be safe. Somehow, we all will.”
She glanced up at Lawrence, hoping he would be able to uphold her promise.
Marshall
The hospital was in perfect working order. In Marshall’s absence, Alex had organized the nursing staff into rotations that were far more efficient than the system he’d had in place for a year. The closets had been reordered and supplies had been ordered. A few of the patients who were able had agreed to change beds or wash floors or windows in exchange for a reduced treatment fee. The overall effect was that the hospital was calmer, the rooms brighter, and the patients more comfortable.
And yet Marshall was in no hurry to declare the place ship-shape so that he could return home.
“What was done about Mr. Latta’s foot surgery?” Marshall asked Mrs. Garforth as he flipped through the log book of treatment that Alex had kept while he was in London.
“Dr. Kinesin was called in to perform it,” Mrs. Garforth reported. “And before you ask, there were only three other surgeries that needed to be performed in your absence, but each of the patients was well enough to travel to Windermere for treatment.” She fixed Marshall with a flat look that said he was wasting her time and his own by grilling her.
“Was there trouble on New Year’s Eve?” Marshall asked on all the same. “There often is when folks are out celebrating.”
Mrs. Garforth sighed. “Dr. Dyson stayed at the hospital through the night to handle any emergencies—”
“In her condition?” Marshall interrupted indignantly.
“—but fortunately, there were none,” Mrs. Garforth finished, lips tight, glaring at him. “Or at least none worth waking her up for. Nurse Stephens and I made sure that she slept through the night in one of the private rooms.”
Before Marshall could say anything else, Mrs. Garforth stood.
“If you are so concerned about your wife, Dr. Pycroft, perhaps you should go home and spend time with her and your girls.”
Marshall had the distinct feeling the old matron’s opinion of him hadn’t changed from the days when she was swatting his backside after he, Jason, and Lawrence had gotten into trouble. A warm flush spread up his neck to his face, mortifying him even more.
“I’ll just make one more check of the wards, then I’ll go home,” he said, closing the log book and hurrying out of the office. He half expected Mrs. Garforth to smack his bottom for good measure as he rushed past her.
It was ridiculous that he was so unnerved by the prospect of being home with Alex. He’d longed to see her again from the moment the train had chugged out of view of Brynthwaite Station weeks before. He’d been all ready to leave for London without hope, and then Alex had appeared on the platform to wave him off. Her parting words hadn’t exactly been a declaration of love, but they’d ignited a flame within him that he’d feared would never see heat again.
Now he was back. She’d been waiting on the platform for him. A blind man could have seen that she’d been through changes in the weeks they’d been apart, and not just physical ones. She’d gained weight, which rounded her out in ways he ached to explore, but there had been a different set to her shoulders, a different angle to how she held her head. Ted Folley had said she’d been through a humiliation at a tea party the other day. That alone was reason why he should be running, not walking, to return to her side to ask what had happened.
Instead, he mounted the stairs to the hospital’s first floor and crossed absentmindedly through the wards. Not a single patient needed his attention as much as Alex did at home. So what was holding him back?
The answer was clear and simple, and it brought even more heat to Marshall’s face. He was a coward. He’d been so miserable with the way things had been between them that he couldn’t bear it if nothing had changed and they were still foes at opposite ends of a battlefield.
And yet, he’d almost kissed her before leaving the house. She’d taken his hand without pulling away. A spark had been in her eyes that he hadn’t seen for months. Perhaps time and distance truly did heal
all. Perhaps—
He was jolted out of his thoughts as he turned the corner to the corridor that held private rooms only to run headlong into Winnie Everett.
“Dr. Pycroft, you’re home,” she gasped, cheeks pink, her one remaining eye shining. She’d changed in the weeks of his absence too. Her lacerations had healed to faint lines running across her face and forearms. She’d found a new, daintier eyepatch, and her hair and skin had a healthier glow to them, as though she’d eaten well for a sustained period of time. She bit her plump, pink lip as she gazed at him.
Instant self-consciousness itched down Marshall’s back. He’d grabbed Winnie to keep either of them from falling over when they collided, but when he tried to let her go, she clung to him. He had to pry her fingers off his arm.
“I am home,” he said, writhing with discomfort. “But I only came to the hospital to make sure everything is running smoothly. I need to go home to my wife and daughters now.”
Winnie didn’t take the hint. She grabbed his arm again. “I’ve done my best to make sure everything has been good here without you,” she said. “Although the hospital couldn’t possibly be the same without you. You are its soul, its heart.” She leaned closer to him, brushing her breasts against his arm.
Marshall stepped back, pushing her away a second time. “Winnie, this must stop,” he said in what he hoped was a firm tone. “As we discussed before I left, my heart belongs to Dr. Dyson and to her alone. She is my wife, and I have no interest in any other woman or girl.” He prayed that emphasizing her age would irritate her and put her off.
He was out of luck. “We never discussed anything,” she said, pursuing him a step. “That horrible Mr. Throckmorton interrupted us before we could express the trueness of our love.” She tilted her head down and batted her eyelashes at him coquettishly.
Marshall huffed and marched a few steps down the hall and away from her. “Nothing happened that day, Winnie, and nothing was going to.”
“Not with Mr. Throckmorton interrupting us,” Winnie insisted, flying after Marshall and throwing herself into his arms.
Marshall was forced to catch her to keep his balance. “Winnie, enough.”
“Tell me when we can be together,” she said, her voice breathless with passion and her eyes glowing with emotion that bordered on madness. “I’ll be yours anywhere and anytime. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I can swallow your cock if that’s what you want. I’m good at that. I don’t choke, no matter how far in you put it.”
Marshall’s skin crawled at the suggestion, and he did everything he could to pull away from her. It was just his luck that one of the private room doors opened when Winnie was in the middle of telling about her talents. Worse still, it was Lady Arabella who had opened the door. Shock painted her face, making it abundantly clear she’d heard the worst of what Winnie had said.
“Stop it this instant,” Marshall barked, pushing Winnie hard enough that she stumbled back. “How dare you make such lewd suggestions to me?”
“I…I’m sorry, Dr. Pycroft,” Winnie said, suddenly looking repentant. Her glance darted to Lady Arabella, then back to Marshall with an impish twinkle. “You misunderstood me. I would never do anything improper. I’m very sorry if that’s what you thought. I have chores to do now.”
She turned and scurried off before Marshall could do anything about the awkward scene. He had the sick feeling that Winnie was still playing games and that Lady Arabella thought he was complicit.
“I cannot apologize to you enough, Lady Arabella,” he said, hot as a furnace and certain he was beet red to match. “What you overheard was unacceptable. Winnie is suffering from severe delusions that cloud her thinking in the wake of a severe accident.” It was a bit of a lie, but he couldn’t simply stand there looking like he’d invited the girl’s attentions.
“I heard nothing, Dr. Pycroft,” Lady Arabella answered in a small, airy voice that hinted her lack of hearing was more out of manners and a sense of discretion than any auditory insufficiency. “Your business is your own.”
“Sincerely,” Marshall said. “Whatever attentions you witnessed absolutely were not invited nor accepted.”
“Say no more about it, Dr. Pycroft,” Lady Arabella said, lowering her eyes.
Marshall cringed outwardly and roiled with embarrassment on the inside. Of all people to make an ass of himself in front of, Lady Arabella would have been his last choice. She was a fine, delicate woman, but she was also George Fretwell’s wife now.
“Are you here on official business, Lady Arabella?” he asked, hoping a discussion about donations or whatever errand Mrs. Fretwell was on would diffuse the tense situation.
“I was waiting for Dr. Dyson,” Lady Arabella admitted, her eyes still downcast. “I hope she might look at a small injury I sustained.”
Marshall snapped instantly out of embarrassment and became the doctor he was. “I’m afraid Dr. Dyson is at home this afternoon, but I would be more than happy to treat whatever ails you.”
Lady Arabella hesitated. Her cheeks flushed as brightly as Marshall was sure his did. “All right,” she said near a whisper.
“Please.” Marshall extended a hand toward the private room, following her in. He shut the door behind them. Whoever on his staff had thought to show Lady Arabella to such a private room for a mere examination was overreacting, but he would respect the lady’s sensibilities. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, gesturing for her to sit on the room’s bed.
Lady Arabella sat carefully. Too carefully. She was a master of disguising whatever she was thinking, but Marshall was used to reading subtle cues from patients who weren’t willing to reveal what was wrong with them.
“I’ve sprained my wrist, I think,” she said at last, carefully tugging her glove from her hand. “It’s a bit bruised.”
Marshall knew the instant Lady Arabella held her slender wrist up what was going on. He’d seen bruises like hers too many times on women. They ringed her wrist, as though someone bigger and stronger had grabbed them and yanked them around. He did his best to keep his hands from shaking with rage as he gently took her forearm in hand and turned it over to assess the damage. It was just a bruise, but what was more important was Marshall’s grim certainty that the bruise she was showing him was not the only one on her body. The way she’d gingerly taken a seat hinted at things even worse than bruises.
“Lady Arabella,” Marshall began quietly, releasing her arm and sitting on the bed beside her. “Do you have somewhere you can go? How far from here do your parents live?”
Without warning, Lady Arabella burst into sobs. “They won’t let me come home,” she wailed. “They said my duty is to my husband, and if I displease him, that’s my fault, not his.”
It made Marshall sick to have his theory confirmed so quickly. It made him sicker knowing that the brute in question had once been Alex’s lover. What had the villain done to Alex that she hadn’t told him about?
He took a deep breath. There would be time for raging jealousy later, but for the moment, Lady Arabella needed his help.
“Have you spoken to Lady Charlotte about this?” he asked.
Lady Arabella shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Twin tears dropped from her eyes. “I wouldn’t dare. She’d say the same thing as my mother. And it is my fault, it is,” she insisted.
“No,” Marshall reached out to comfort her, but second-guessed the wisdom of touching a woman who had been abused. “It couldn’t possibly be your fault.”
“But it is,” she went on. “We’ve been doing everything right, but I’m still not with child. I’ve done things I never would have dreamed of, whatever he tells me to do. But at the first sign of my monthly, he flies into a rage, punishes me, and tells me I’m no kind of a woman and that he should have married—” She ended with a gasp, her damp eyes darting up to Marshall’s.
“Let’s both thank God that he didn’t,” Marshall said with barely-controlled rage.
“Is there anything you
can do to help me?” she asked. “Any pills or tonics I can take that will cause a child to take hold in me? I’m desperate, Dr. Pycroft, and you would know, since Dr. Dyson fell pregnant so quickly.”
Marshall had no idea what to say. His instinct toward compassionate healing was at war with utter fury at what he was certain Lady Arabella had heard through gossip. There was nothing he could do to treat her, but neither was there anything he could do to stop her from going back to the brute who had left bruises, and more, on her.
“I suggest you make an appointment to speak to Dr. Dyson as soon as possible,” he said. “She will be able to give you a more thorough examination, and I’m quite certain she will be able to advise you on ways to break free.”
Lady Arabella gaped at him. “I can’t. I’m a wife. I have duties.” Her face pinched. “Even if I wanted to, I have nowhere to go.”
Marshall clenched his teeth, rippling with rage. “Come back tomorrow and speak to Dr. Dyson. I’m sure she can help you.” Especially since he intended to tell Alex exactly what Lady Arabella had said to him and more. Between the two of them, they could figure out what to do.
Marshall stood, offering Lady Arabella a hand. She winced slightly as she stood, then tugged her glove back on. Once it was in place, she drew out an embroidered handkerchief from the reticule hung on her wrist.
“If it’s all right with you, Dr. Pycroft,” she said in a wretched voice. “I’d like a moment to myself to recover my wits before I leave the hospital.”
“Certainly,” Marshall said. “Take as long as you’d like.” He would have offered to let her stay the night in order to keep out of Fretwell’s clutches if he thought she’d accept the offer. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’m wanted at home.”
The Brynthwaite Boys: Season Two - Part Two Page 10