The Brynthwaite Boys

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.

“Do you have healing?” she asked, studying him with round eyes.

He smiled up at her from where he crouched by her feet. “A man who works with fire and iron needs to know a few things about healing burns and cuts. So yes, I know a little healing. Mother Grace was generous with her knowledge.”

“Mother Grace?”

He paused, eyes narrowing, studying her.

“Let’s save that story for another day.”

He stood and crossed back to the stove. The kettle had barely begun to steam, but there was another, metal bowl on the stove with it. He tested the water it held for temperature, and, deciding it wasn’t too hot, picked it up and brought it over to the table to set at her feet.

“Why don’t you soak your poor feet in this. I mixed some soothing tinctures in with the water along with a few fresh herbs and let it sit out on the stove all night. It’s not the best solution, but it should soothe.”

Matty nodded slowly and let Lawrence inch her feet into the water. His touch was the most tender thing she had ever felt.

A flash of pain and the tight, constricting grip of hands around her throat.

Matty gasped, grabbing onto the table as if she would be bowled over by the force of a blow. No blow came, though.

Lawrence’s smile had vanished, replaced by deep concern. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“I….” Matty cleared her throat. “I don’t know. I felt…I saw…I don’t know.”

“Are you remembering things?” Lawrence asked.

She nodded, not wanting to say more, not wanting to remember at all. Those memories were not good. Maybe it was better that they stayed where they were, away from her.

Lawrence continued to watch her, his hand resting over top of hers on the edge of the table. She hadn’t realized he’d moved to protect her like that. He was warm, very warm. Why did she trust him? She didn’t know, but something told her she could.

“Let me see if the water is close to boiling,” he said, standing slowly and inching away from her.

The water wasn’t hot yet, but Lawrence didn’t rest. He moved around the open space of his room, taking clean clothes from the chest at the foot of the bed. Matty watched his movements until he loosened the breeches he wore and dropped them. Her eyes went wide at the glimpse of his backside and she snapped to face straight ahead, focusing on the stove. What kind of man was he to undress when a woman was right there in the room?

She refused to turn her head, studying the details of the small area in front of her. Another tiny window stood next to the stove. Outside the sky was clear, but traces of rain still streaked the windowpane. Her dress had been draped over  a chair near the fire to dry. It was still slightly damp. The walls were plain and unfinished. The floor clean.

“I would take you into the hospital in Brynthwaite right away this morning,” Lawrence said, stepping back into her line of sight as though nothing was out of the ordinary, “but I have a mountain of work to get through. My friend is opening a hotel in town and I’ve been charged with completing all of the metalwork. If I don’t keep up with the grates they’ll get away from me, and the hotel opens in two weeks.”

“Oh,” Matty said, her cheeks still pink with embarrassment.

“As soon as I get far enough along with the work to leave it to Oliver, I’ll take you in.”

She blinked. “Oliver?”

“My assistant,” Lawrence answered. “He’s a young lad, only a bit younger than you, would be my guess.” He paused. “Do you know how old you are?”

Under any other circumstances, the question would have been silly. Would have been, but Matty didn’t know the answer. She shook her head.

Lawrence replied with a sympathetic smile, resting his hand on her shoulder. “No matter. You look to be in your early twenties, so we’ll leave it at that.”

He stepped away, going to the chair that held her dress and picking it up to feel the fabric. He frowned, then flipped the dress over to continue drying.

“I suppose it’s for the best that we wait to go into town anyhow,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to wear.”

Matty glanced down at herself. She hadn’t considered how naked she might look to others wearing nothing but a man’s shirt and long underwear. She didn’t even have a corset or stays. What a state to be in.

“Looks like the water is almost ready for tea,” Lawrence said.

He did more than make her tea. He put together a simple porridge with a sprinkling of brown sugar. It was the most delicious thing Matty had ever tasted. She didn’t think she was used to sugar at all, though with no memory it was hard to tell. She ate her breakfast in grateful silence, wracking her brain to come up with some way to repay Lawrence for his kindness.

When breakfast was finished, he checked on her feet, applied more of the herb salve he had bathed them with the night before, and refastened the bandages. He even loaned her an old pair of shoes—though they were many sizes too big for her—explaining that the floor of the forge below was often littered with nails or embers and dangerous to walk without shoes. He was right. When they descended the narrow staircase and stepped into the workroom under the apartment above, all manner of debris crunched under Matty’s feet.

Even that was quickly forgotten. A young man was hard at work, feeding the fire of the forge and working the coals to a hot blaze. The heat rippled off of the hearth in waves. There was something comforting about it, something that instilled a strange kind of confidence in Matty, but still she hung back. The young man continued to work as if she wasn’t there, but her heart quaked in fear nonetheless.

“This is Oliver,” Lawrence said, leaving Matty at the base of the stairs and striding across the gritty floor of his workroom to the forge. He took a leather apron off of a hook at the side of the forge and put it on. “Oliver,” he raised his voice slightly, “this is Miss Matty. She arrived last night in great distress, but you’ve no need to fear her.”

Oliver dipped and nodded and shuffled back and forth between his feet, but he didn’t once look up at Lawrence or at Matty. Lawrence went on as if the two had had a long discourse.

“Matty is going to sit and watch us while we work this morning. She won’t get in your way.”

For all Matty could see, Oliver didn’t even hear Lawrence. He continued to sway and shift, almost absently, his eyes fixed on the flames of the forge, his body held at stiff angles. Lawrence went on with  his own work without another word to either of them. It was the most curious thing Matty had ever seen, though she couldn’t decide which man was stranger. Something was most definitely not right about Oliver. He performed his work with steady, repetitive motions, feeding the fire and pumping the billows. His eyes seemed unfocused, or perhaps too focused.  He never looked up from the spot that had his attention.

As Lawrence began his own work, however, Matty observed a sort of rhythm or pattern between the two of them. They worked well together without exchanging a word. Oliver did the few things that he was capable of, but he did them well and with perfect timing. That left Lawrence to do more of the precise, intricate work. Matty wasn’t sure how long she sat at the bottom of the stairs watching them. It could have been hours, it could have been minutes. She couldn’t sit still forever, though.

Before long, she tested her weight on her feet again, pleased to find that the pain from the blisters wasn’t as bad as before. It felt wrong to sit there doing nothing, so she searched for something to keep her hands busy.

You must always keep your hands busy, my dear, or he will think you’re lazy.

Matty sucked in a breath and blinked at the memory. She didn’t want to think about it. Her eyes rested on a broom tucked in a corner, and she knew what she had to do. In the shoes that were too big for her, feet still stinging enough for her to bite her lip, she shuffled across the workroom to fetch the broom. Then she started sweeping.

Lawrence’s workroom was a well-kept but dusty collection of tools of all shapes and sizes and descriptions. She wasn’t sure what half of them were. A long workbench ran along one wall with the stairs at the far end. A high table stood in the center of the room with a variety of small metal workings, hinges and handles and the like, scattered across it. Several larger pieces—like gates or lattice work—rested against one wall, while shelves with cubbies for nails of all sizes and a few spare horseshoes stood against the other wall. The workshop had only three walls. Where a fourth wall should have been, the room opened out to the forge itself. A roof covered the hot forge with a wide hole in it through which a chimney rose up to direct the heat away. Matty could see that the arrangement would allow for work in all weather and all seasons.

It took several minutes before Lawrence glanced up from pounding on a length of glowing-hot metal at the forge to watch her. He stood straight and backed away from his work, face and chest streaked with sweat from the heat.

“Matty, you don’t have to do that,” he told her. “Consider yourself my guest here.”

She paused to turn to him. “Please, let me work. I can’t bear to sit idle when there’s work to be done.”

“But your feet. I don’t want you to hurt them any more than they’re already hurt.”

She glanced down at her bandaged feet in his shoes. “If they hurt too much, I’ll stop.”

He hesitated, then nodded, returning to the forge. “Be honest about your pain,” he said. “It does no good to deny suffering if it will only lead to more suffering.”

His words seemed to be full of more wisdom than they appeared.

He spared her one more look before taking up his tools. “As soon as I finish here, I’ll take you in to the hospital.”

Alexandra

“Good morning, Uncle David,” Alex greeted her uncle with a cheerful smile as she stepped into his room. And why shouldn’t she smile? Life had taken a turn for the decidedly satisfactory.

“Alexandra,” her uncle replied, as dour as ever. He pushed himself to sit straight against the pillows piled behind him. “What brings you to visit a feeble old man so early in the morning?”

“I’ve come to check on your gout,” she told him, crossing to sit on the side of his bed, reaching for the covers.

Her uncle huffed and grabbed the covers from her, pulling them tight against his stomach. “You’ll do no such thing, young lady. My lower extremities are not a sight for a pretty girl like you.”

Alex met his well-meaning resistance with a tight smile. “Now Uncle David,” she said, placing her hand over his. “You know that I am a qualified medical doctor. I’ve seen more cases of gout than you can shake a stick at, and many things much worse.”

He sighed. “My brother was a fool to let you sully your sensitive mind with medicine.”

Alex had heard that or something similar so many times that she could recite any of the number of arguments that usually followed. Today, however, none of it seemed to matter. She was not only a qualified doctor, she was a doctor employed at a hospital.

“I’ll give you a peppermint if you let me take a look,” she coaxed him.

“A peppermint?”

She knew she had him. Her uncle’s sweet tooth was as infamous as her own father’s. All she had to do was bring him a candy from the dish on the dressing table out of his reach and he was putty in her hands.

“I hate to have you look at them,” he moaned as she peeled the bedcovers back and examined his feet and calves. “I used to be the most well-turned-out gentleman in the county in my day. My calves were the stuff of legend. Now look at me. Old and gnarled, too twisted to walk more than a foot once I get out of bed, and too weak to keep company.”

“Yes, but at least you don’t have to suffer through Mrs. Crimpley’s lists of things that will bring crime and ruin to Brynthwaite over tea,” Alex replied.

They shared a laugh that was broken only by Lord Thornwell’s wince of pain.

Alex was halfway through applying a salve to her uncle’s feet when Elizabeth swanned into the room.

“Good morning, Papa,” she said, as cheery as the sunlight glittering off of the dew left by the night’s rain. “You’re looking very strong today.” She skipped across the room to kiss his cheek.

“I’m being subjected to the medical ministrations of your formidable cousin,” he said.

Alex grinned up at the father and daughter as she finished their work, a pang in her heart. Elizabeth and Lord Thornwell were as close as she had been with her own, dearly missed father. Uncle David could chastise her all he wanted and call her father a fool, but Alex had no doubt that if Elizabeth had taken it into her head to practice medicine or law or to become a stock broker, he would stop at nothing to ensure her dreams were fulfilled.

“And what are you up to this fine day, missy?” he asked Elizabeth.

“Oh, you know me, Papa. Just visiting some of the tenants to see how the new irrigations systems are coming along.” She said it the same way she would tell him she was going into town to look at bonnets.

“Don’t you let them dismiss you, my dear,” Uncle David cautioned her. “You’re as smart as any of them, and they should know it.”

“Oh, but I could never be rude with them, Papa. I listen to everything they have to say with a smile on my face,” she said.

And told them exactly what she thought afterwards, Alex was sure. She and Elizabeth were different in so many ways, but no one would ever accuse David and James Dyson of siring imbeciles. Elizabeth was just as formidable as Alex when it came to stewarding the land she saw as rightfully hers…and a large bit of land that wasn’t.

“There you go, Uncle David. Good as new.” Alex finished with his feet and pulled the bedcovers back up over his legs.

“Thank you my dear, you are a treasure,” he said, patting her hand. “Even if I strongly disapprove of the ways in which you choose to be a treasure.”

“Now Papa,” Elizabeth scolded him. “We should be very proud of all that Alexandra has accomplished. What did they say in your day? That she was a ‘diamond of the first water?’”

Lord Thornwell snorted. “How old do you think I am, you rascal? That turn of phrase was well out of date when I was young.”

“It’s true, regardless,” Elizabeth argued. “And I, for one, am delighted to have a physician on call.”

“Speaking of which,” Alex said, glancing at the clock on her uncle’s bureau. She didn’t want to be late to the hospital on her first full day.

She gave Elizabeth a significant look, then turned to head out of the room.

“Just one moment,” Elizabeth called after her, following her into the hall. She shut her father’s door carefully behind her, then tip-toed closer to Alex and whispered, “You didn’t tell your mother, did you?”

“Of course not,” Alex whispered in return, grinning as though the two of them were naughty schoolgirls. “She’d pop right out of her corset if I did.”

“Then you must go quickly, slip away before even the servants notice.”

“I’m sure Hugo will notice one way or another,” Alex said.

“Yes, but he would never tell,” Elizabeth answered. “Go.”

Alex reached for her cousin’s hand and squeezed it before hurrying on down the hall. She had purposely made certain she had everything she needed before going to visit her uncle. All she had to do now was slip down to the foyer and out the front door. She could walk into Brynthwaite. It wasn’t as far as all that.

“Alexandra!”

With a gasp and a wince, Alex froze halfway across the main hall at the snap of her mother’s voice.

“Where are you going?” her mother asked from the stairs. She took her regal time finishing her descent, and then crossing to where Alex stood, scrambling for excuses.

“It’s such a beautiful morning,” Alex said, more nervous than she should be. Lying had never been her strong suit. “I thought I would enjoy a walk into town while the rain is still catching the morning sunlight on the grass.”

Her mother stared at her as if she’d grown another head. “Really? That seems rather…poetic, doesn’t it? You never struck me as the poetical type.”

“The Lake District inspires one to all sorts of flights of fancy, mother,” Alex said, adding a smile that she prayed looked genuine.

Her mother continued to stare at her, suspicious to the core.

“Well,” she said at last with a sigh and a wave of her hand, “I suppose it won’t do any harm. But you must be back here by noon.”

“Noon?” Alex’s heart skipped a beat. She was under the assumption that she would be working at the hospital all day, and that her mother wouldn’t keep track of her.

“Yes. Your cousin has been invited to take a tour of the new hotel by Mr. Throckmorton, and he’s offered to serve her tea in his dining room. Elizabeth plans to take us with her and put the hotel’s restaurant staff to the test.”

“Does Mr. Throckmorton know about this?”

“How should I know?” her mother sighed. “I assume so. Surely Elizabeth would have told him he intends to bring a whole party. Everything Elizabeth does is a whole party.”

“It is.” At least she and her mother agreed on one thing. “Now I really must go before….” She stopped when her mother’s brow knit in confusion. “Before the rain dries up,” she faltered.

She held her breath as she waited for her mother’s reaction. For a moment it was touch-and-go, and Alex was certain her mother would attempt to drag the whole story out of her. But after a painful pause, Lady Charlotte sighed and said, “All right, then. I must see if Mrs. Henderson has given the housemaids their assignments for the day. I need somebody to do a far better job of tidying up the morning parlor.”

“Yes, mother,” Alex said, then turned to escape while she could. If her mother was ordering Elizabeth’s servants around already, a conflict was likely to follow, and she didn’t want to be there for it.

The morning was genuinely enjoyable by the time Alex found herself strolling down the main road into Brynthwaite. It was easier to walk down the hill than it would be to walk up on her way back, but at least the road had been built to follow the line of the hill in a gradual slope. It was an enjoyable morning after all, whether she’d used that as an excuse or not, and Alex smiled at her good fortune, having ended up in a backwoods that was at least scenic. She was certain Mr. Throckmorton’s hotel would do a splendid amount of business once it opened.

The hospital was in business already by the time she was let in the front door by a glowering Mrs. Garforth, even though it wouldn’t formally open for another half hour.

“There’s rounds to do to check on the patients already here,” Mrs. Garforth informed her. “The night nurses have to make their reports.”

“Is Dr. Pycroft not here yet?” she asked, removing her overcoat in the dispensary and switching it out for a simple white apron.

“Not yet,” Mrs. Garforth said. “You’ll have to do it.”

“Then I will.” Alex nodded, eager to get started. She stopped off in Dr. Pycroft’s office to pick up the checklist of cases that he had shown her in a less-than chaotic moment the day before, then turned the corner and headed upstairs to meet with the night nurses.

“I’m fine with you changing the dressing on me leg,” a crotchety older man in a bed in the men’s ward growled at her as she read over his chart, “but I don’t want you doin’ no doctorin’ on me.”

“Fortunately, it looks like you don’t need much doctoring at this point, Mr. Jenkins,” Alex informed the man with a smile, hanging his chart back on its hook on the wall at the head of his bed. “Dr. Pycroft has taken fine care of you.”

“He’s a good one, that Dr. Pycroft,” a middle-aged man with a barrel chest and a horrible rash on every bit of skin that Alex could see said. “Busy as a beggar, but a good one.”

“Yes, I’ve begun to realize that,” Alex agreed. And a unique man too, as he was so quick to hire her and make her feel accepted. She’d thought him a bit gruff at first the day before, but working together had changed her opinion.

“Miss—I mean, Dr. Dyson,” the gangling young porter, Simon, nearly ran smack into her as Alex crossed from the men’s ward to the women’s and children’s.

“Good morning, Simon. Can I help you?” she asked, dodging him.

“Only, we’re supposed to treat you like a real doctor, right?” he said.

Alex was in too pleasant a mood to set him straight other than saying, “Yes, I am a real doctor.”

“Good.” Simon nodded, oblivious to his mistake. “So here’s this.”

He thrust a clipboard at her. Alex grinned, musing that the entire hospital ran on clipboards. Her grin turned into a frown.

“Are you certain this is right?” she asked.

“I am,” Simon said.

Alex frowned and took another look at the pages he’d handed her. It was an inventory of the hospital’s supplies. A list of medicines and other tangible supplies ran down the left-hand side of each page with the number on hand to the right. Not a single number was over five, and several supplies that Alex would have considered vital—morphine, chloroform, carbolic acid—were at what she considered dire levels.

“How frequently does Dr. Pycroft place an order?” she asked Simon, continuing on to the women’s and children’s wards.

“As often as he can, ma’am…I mean, Dr. Dyson,” Simon answered.

“How often does that turn out to be?”

Simon shrugged. “Every couple of weeks when the money comes in from the government, or when someone gives us some.”

“And how often do people donate to the hospital?”

“I dunno, ma—Dr. Dyson.”

No, it didn’t make sense that he would. Simon was just a porter. The only person on staff that Alex could think of who would know about the money coming into the hospital would be Dr. Pycroft himself. She dismissed Simon with a smile and continued on with the morning rounds, but determined that as soon as Dr. Pycroft arrived, she would catch him and ask him about the hospital’s funding before they both got too busy.

She didn’t have to wait long. Not much more than ten minutes later, she heard Dr. Pycroft’s voice echoing in the hall downstairs. She excused herself from the patient she was examining and turned her over to the care of Nurse Nyman, then hurried downstairs, like a child eager to see what Father Christmas had left under the tree.

“But Marshall, you promised,” an angry female voice stopped Alex short as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Marshall stormed past, his coat and hat still on. A slender woman in her mid-30s with her hair done up in a style far too fashionable for the simple cotton skirt and blouse she wore marched behind him. Three girls followed her, the oldest of which was Mary Pycroft. Mary stopped at Alex’s side and gave her a wary look.

“I know that I said you could have a new frock for the hotel opening, Clara,” Marshall turned and faced his rampaging wife, “but circumstances do not permit a custom-ordered gown from Redmonton’s.” His voice was low and tight. He was trying not to be heard by half the town.

“You’re going back on your word?” Clara barked, evidently not caring who heard her.

“No, my dear, I am not going back on my word,” Marshall lowered his voice further, stepping toward her. “I said you could have a new frock, and you shall. We can spare enough for you to buy the necessary yardage of fine fabric, and—”

“Fabric?” Clara shouted as though he’d suggested she go to the hotel opening naked. “You mean for me to make my own dress?”

A cluster of patients had stuck their heads through the waiting room door to see what was going on, and a few more had ventured down the stairs to watch. The man with the rash bumped against Alex as she stood at the bottom of the stairs. Alex jostled, nudging into the youngest of the Pycroft girls, a tiny thing who looked to be about five years old. She glanced up at the man with the rash and yelped, then scampered across the hall. Alex followed to comfort her, and as soon as she grew close, the girl buried her face in Alex’s skirt.

“I have never been so insulted in my life,” Clara continued to rail at Marshall, even though he had inched down the hall toward the door to his office. “I left London for you, Marshall. I left a comfortable life with well-to-do parents, capable of providing for my every need, and all you have to offer me is fabric to make my own dress?”

“There’s plenty of women who would be glad of so much,” Marshall did his best to reason with her.

“Plenty of women? Is that the way of things?” Clara hounded him. “And where are those plenty of women, Marshall? Where are they? Do you keep your paramours up on the wards?”

“Hold your tongue, woman,” Marshall finally shouted, face red with anger. “What kind of a man do you take me for?”

“I take you for a man who treats his wife like a common servant,” Clara bellowed.

“She’s been like this all morning,” Mary sighed, leaning against the wall, looking like misery itself, and certainly older than her twelve years.

“All morning?” Alex asked.

Mary nodded.

“I want to go back to school,” the middle girl sniffled, lowering her chin to her chest.

“But you’re on your summer holidays,” Alex told her. “Don’t you like holidays?”

“No,” the middle girl said.

“Come now, Molly, they’re not all bad,” Mary did her best to cheer her sister up.

“They are,” Molly insisted. “We have to be home all day.”

“And another thing,” Clara continued to shout. At least she and Marshall had turned the corner into the office. That didn’t stop the patients from listening in. “You never take me out and show me off to your friends. We should be dining at one of the establishments in town at least once a week. Why, my sister, Eileen, and her husband go to the theater once a week.”

“Clara, sweetheart, we simply don’t have the money to indulge in dining out when you are perfectly capable of cooking our supper. The hospital can barely afford—”

“Is that all you think I am? Your drudge?”

“I’m the one who does most of the cooking anyhow,” Mary said with an indignant huff. “Mother only thinks she can cook.”

“You’re much better,” the littlest girl finally showed her face.

Alex had no idea how to soothe the upset or smooth the feathers of the girls around her. She may have been a woman, but she’d spent the last ten years of her life more devoted to science and medicine than to learning maternal arts.

“What’s your name?” she asked the little one, feeling hopelessly dull.

“Martha,” she said.

Alex smiled. “Mary, Molly, and Martha. I think I sense a pattern.”

“And Marshall,” Molly added. “We all fit together.”

“Clara,” Mary said.

The other two hummed softly, as though their mother’s name was some sort of code.

An awkward twist caught in Alex’s chest. She was bad enough at handling her own family drama. Adding someone else’s to the mix was a recipe for disaster.

She didn’t have long to ponder that discomfort. The hall had grown silent. Whatever fight Dr. Pycroft and his wife continued to have, they were doing it in private. The patients who had come out from around corners, like curious squirrels hoping to get a nut, turned and shifted off to where they’d come from.

“Are you the lady doctor that Papa told us about?” Molly asked, taking another look at Alex.

“I am.” Alex smiled. “My name is Dr. Dyson, but you can call me Dr. Alex, if you’d like.” It was a ridiculous breech of etiquette, but at the moment she felt as though the girls needed it.

“Alex?” Mary blinked. “That’s a boy’s name.”

“It’s short for Alexandra,” Alex explained, “but all of my closest friends have always called me Alex.”

“Are we your friends?” little Martha asked.

Alex bent toward her, touching her nose. “I suppose you are, although we’ve just met.”

The smile on Martha’s face was all the reward Alex needed for breaking rank. How extraordinary that something as simple as a child could make her already sunny day sunnier.

“Girls!”

The shrill snap from Clara as she marched out of Marshall’s office—red-faced and quivering with rage—was more than enough to break the temporary reprieve. “Come! Now!”

Clara marched past them, tugging on her gloves, which were also out of place with the simplicity of the clothes she wore. As she passed, Clara met Alex’s eyes, then turned up her nose with a sniff and stormed on. The three Pycroft girls fell into place behind her, drooping and heavy with unhappiness. If only there were a cure for the problems that afflicted them.

“I am so sorry about that.”

Marshall’s hushed voice behind her startled Alex into realizing she’d stood where she was and watched the Pycrofts march out of the hospital. She spun to face Marshall, hoping her expression didn’t betray the pity she felt for him, for all of his family.

“It’s no trouble,” she said with a tight smile. “We all have our family difficulties.”

“Yes, but most of us don’t parade them in public.”

There was absolutely nothing she could say to that. All she could do was stare at Marshall, at the flush in his cheeks and the rise and fall of his chest as he calmed himself. She owed it to him to help where she could, which meant focusing on business. She still had the clipboard of hospital supplies in her left hand.

“Dr. Pycroft,” she began with a serious expression. She cleared her throat. “Simon handed me these lists earlier. Is it true that the hospital can barely afford the necessaries?”

A deep weariness settled over Marshall’s features. He started back down the hall toward his office, gesturing for Alex to follow. When they were safe behind the office’s closed door, Marshall went to sit against the edge of his desk.

“I was remiss yesterday when I interviewed you, Dr. Dyson,” he said, not quite able to meet Alex’s eyes.

“Oh? In what way?” she asked.

“I failed to discuss compensation.” Now he met her eyes with a look that said no good would come from his next words. “The fact is, the hospital is a charity, in spite of being a crown hospital. I’m sure it’s my own fault, but the funds that are allocated to the running of the hospital barely cover the salaries of the staff, and all but the minimum of supplies. The rest of our budget depends on fees paid by the patients and whatever donations we can wring out of the more generous souls in the county.”

“And the rest isn’t enough to keep the stocks where they should be,” Alex finished for him. “That is deplorable.”

The look of a hunted deer came into Marshall’s eyes. Alex gasped when she saw it.

“I am not saying that you are deplorable, Dr. Pycroft, oh no,” she rushed to correct herself. “From everything I’ve seen, you run the hospital as efficiently as possible, and at great personal sacrifice.” The trouble with Clara suddenly made more sense. The woman was cursed with a husband who cared about the people who put their health in his charge.

“The fact of the matter is, Dr. Dyson,” he went on, “I’m not sure there’s enough in the budget for me to adequately compensate you for your time. I was so bowled over by the prospect of help that it slipped my mind.”

“Understandable,” Alex said.

“But unforgivable. I should be honest with you. I may not be able to pay you at all.”

Alex held her breath. Of course, she didn’t need to pay her own way in the world. She had a roof over her head, clothes to wear, and food to eat whether she worked or not. Not to mention a small allowance. She had hoped to break away from all that, though, difficult as it would be.

“Perhaps,” she began slowly. “Perhaps we could tackle the work in front of us first, and discuss my compensation when the need arises.”

Marshall’s brow flew up and he straightened. For a moment, there was so much hope in the man’s eyes, so much gratitude, that emotion threatened to choke Alex.

“I won’t deny that those words are music to my ears,” he said. “Your helps is sorely needed here, whether I have the funds or not.”

“I can see that.” Alex nodded. “And in truth, you are doing me an immense favor by taking me on to begin with. Few men would be willing to take on a woman as a colleague.”

She paused, meeting his eyes. If she wasn’t mistaken, she found understanding there.

“We take help where we find it, Dr. Dyson,” he said, as frank as a man had ever been with her. “I need help.”

Those three words held more truth in them than anything Alex had heard for years. He did. She would be the person to give him that help.

“Well then,” she said. “We’d best get on with things.”

Marshall smiled and pushed himself up from the desk. “Yes, we had. Have you made the morning rounds yet?”

“Just about,” Alex answered.

The next few minutes were spent discussing the cases already at the hospital. Marshall pointed out a few things Alex had missed, then continued through the women’s and children’s ward with her. Before an hour had passed, they were both absorbed in treating new cases and old, all memory of the upset of the morning pushed to the side to make way for work.

It was just after midday when Alex heard Marshall call out, “Dr. Dyson, could I see you for a moment?” as she examined a man with a fever in one of the examination rooms.”

“Rest easy, Mr. Boyce. I’ll have Nurse Stephens bring you some aspirin,” she told her patient, then marched out of the room and around the corner to the one where Marshall was working.

She blinked at the sight that met her. Sitting on the examination able was a young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty. She was bruised and had a split lip, as well as bandaged hands and feet. What was unusual about her was that she wore only a man’s shirt and long underwear.

The young woman was silent, but the man who stood beside the table, dressed in a simple shirt, vest, and trousers, said, “So this is the brilliant female doctor you were telling me about.”

Alex wasn’t sure if she should be taken aback by the man’s comment or his well-put-together state when the woman with him clearly looked as though she had been beaten. Judging from the size of the man’s forearms, he could have done that kind of damage.

Her instinct to be wary of the man was shattered by Marshall’s easy manor.

“Dr. Dyson, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Mr. Lawrence Smith,” Marshall introduced them.

“Mr. Smith.” Alex nodded to him, shifting her attention where it belonged, to the young woman. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

Marshall and Lawrence exchanged a look that hinted at Lawrence being impressed by her businesslike manner.

“This young woman wandered into Lawrence’s forge last night,” Marshall explained. “Lawrence is the town blacksmith, and his forge is just outside of town to the south.”

“Matty here showed up out of the pouring rain in the state she is,” Lawrence explained. The distress in his eyes as he glanced to the young woman continued to change Alex’s opinion of him. “She has obviously been battered, but she has no memory.”

Alex flinched, shocked. “No memory?” she asked the young woman, Matty.

“I remember walking,” Matty told her. “I know my name, at least part of it. Not my surname, just Matty.”

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Alex asked.

Matty shook her head.

“She’s clearly experienced some sort of severe trauma,” Marshall said, glancing between Matty and Alex, “although there don’t appear to be any head injuries. Plenty of other bruises, though. I’ve taken a look at her feet—blisters and cuts, from walking, I presume—and cleaned and rebandaged them. I was hoping that you might perform an examination of a more intimate nature, Dr. Dyson, to determine if there has been any other abuse.”

Alex took in a breath as she understood the request. “Yes, of course.” She smiled to reassure Matty.

“We’ll just wait outside until you’re done,” Marshall said, gesturing for Lawrence to precede him out of the room.

As soon as they were gone, Alex put on her most gentle bedside manner and went to the table to examine Matty. As she helped Matty remove her odd clothes, she was enraged to find so many bruises. Some were older than others, nearly healed. Whatever had happened to this woman, it hadn’t been a single occurrence.

“You remember nothing at all?” Alex asked, helping Matty to lie down so that she could check what she had been specifically called to check.

“I remember tiny things,” Matty sighed, her voice small. “Flashes. That’s all.”

“I see.”

Battered though she was, Matty wasn’t timid. She let Alex perform all of the female examinations she needed to without complaint. When she was done, Alex helped her to dress again.

“Surely the hospital must have a depository of clothing that would be more appropriate for you to wear besides these things,” she said as Matty sat up and shrugged into the man’s shirt.

“My things were soaked through in the storm,” Matty explained. “I don’t mind these, but I am cold here. The forge is warm.” Her voice drifted off.

Alex frowned in thought and went to the door to invite the men back in.

“Her hymen is intact, and there is no bruising of an intimate nature,” she spoke quietly to Marshall. “She has not been tampered with that way.”

“Just beaten to within an inch of her life,” Lawrence said, overhearing them. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, and Alex found herself hoping she was never on this man’s bad side.

“The bruises will heal,” Marshall went on with a sigh, “as will the cuts. You did a fine job of bandaging her feet before.”

“Mother Grace taught me well.”

Lawrence grinned at Marshall, clearly teasing him over something. Marshall rolled his eyes. Alex caught herself smiling, as if years had dropped away and the two friends were young men having a go at each other. Not only did that finish her change of opinion about Lawrence, it bolstered her opinion of Marshall as well. In fact, she believed the smile he had for his friend was the first smile she’d ever seen from him.

“Is there a home for wanderers in Brynthwaite?” she asked. “Or perhaps could the hospital keep Miss Matty here until she is well and her memory has returned?”

“No,” Matty gasped. Alex and both men turned to her, only to find that the poor woman’s eyes had gone round with fear. “No, I want to stay at the forge.”

Alex’s brow shot up. Lawrence and Marshall exchanged looks.

“I’ve no objection to extending hospitality to her for as long as she’d like,” Lawrence told Marshall.

“Are you certain?”

Lawrence shrugged and nodded. “Why not? She was helpful this morning, sweeping the workroom even though her feet were badly injured.”

“He carried me here on his back,” Matty was quick to tell Marshall and Alex. “He won’t hurt me.”

There was a pause before Marshall said, “You’re right there. Lawrence is the most gentle soul I know.” He sent his friend a serious look, as though making sure he knew what he was getting into.

“Do we at least have a used clothing supply?” Alex asked. “It would be a pity to let poor Matty continue to wear nothing but a shirt. She said she was cold.”

“Yes, of course,” Marshall said. “We are given clothing donations sometimes. There’s a bag of them in the storeroom.”

“Which one?” Lawrence asked.

“The one that used to be the library, such that it was,” Marshall answered, almost as if he and Lawrence were speaking their own language.

“I’ll fetch something,” Lawrence said, then nodded and left at a fast stride.

“Do you need me for anything else?” Alex asked.

Marshall shook his head. “Probably a hundred thousand things, Dr. Dyson. Your help is invaluable.”

He met her eyes, and that smile that she’d only just seen for the first time was directed at her. She rather liked it. His eyes narrowed to jolly lines when he smiled. It was a shame he didn’t have cause to smile more often. That observation brought back the memory of his wife causing a fuss that morning. Poor Dr. Pycroft.

“I’ll just go back to treating patients, then,” Alex said.

She spared a last smile for Matty, then turned and strode out of the room, ready to dive back into work with full energy.

Flossie

A crash coming from the lobby was not the sort of sound anyone at the hotel wanted to hear.

“What in the bloody hell was that?” Mr. Throckmorton’s voice boomed a second later.

From her position at the top of a ladder near the window, Flossie could see straight into the lobby. She watched as Mr. Throckmorton stormed out of his office, around the desk, and into the muddy lobby.

“Oh lord,” Dora, the fellow maid who Flossie had become quick friends with the day before as she moved into her room on the staff hall, muttered.

“It was just a flower pot, Mr. Throckmorton, just a flower pot,” a distraught bellboy rushed to defend himself.

“There is mud all over the marble,” Mr. Throckmorton raged on. His face was a spotty red and somehow his long coat seemed to be buttoned up to the point of suffocating.

“J-just mud,” the bellboy said, quivering.

“Then clean it up,” Mr. Throckmorton shouted. Unable to stand still, he marched on into the dining room where Flossie and Dora worked.

“Don’t look at him,” Dora squeaked. “He’s a dragon today. You’re like to have your head snapped off.”

Flossie didn’t doubt Dora was right, but pity rather than fear filled her chest. She watched Mr. Throckmorton from atop the ladder as he stormed through the room, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. The man looked as though steam was about to come out of his ears. His neck was nearly purple now. He paced to a table full of parcels, raising a hand to touch one, reading the label. His hand shook.

Flossie blew out a breath. He really was upset, but over mud on the marble?

“What is this?” he demanded, jerking his head up from reading the package and scanning the half dozen hotel employees at work in the room. “What are you doing?”

None of them met his eyes, let alone answered.

“They’re the curtains for the dining room,” Flossie called down from the ladder. “They’ve just arrived, and we’re about to hang them.”

Mr. Throckmorton’s fiery gaze took a moment to find her as the one who had spoken. As soon as he did, their eyes met. Flossie caught her breath. So much frustration, so much desperation. All she could do was smile, as if that would make it all right.

Mr. Throckmorton froze. Not only that, Flossie was fairly certain he held his breath. Then, slowly, his shoulders lowered.

“Lady Elizabeth will be here in half an hour’s time, and the curtains have only just arrived?” he hissed as if fighting Lucifer himself to keep from shouting and tearing the whole place down.

Again, no one answered and Flossie had to take charge.

“In the nick of time,” she said and bobbed a half-curtsy. It was awkward on the ladder, but she had good balance and pulled it off.

“Well?” Mr. Throckmorton growled when no one else moved. “Let’s see!”

Flossie nodded and looked away from him. She gestured to Dora to hand her the curtain rod that she had just finished sliding the thick, burgundy velvet curtains on. Flossie had to come down a rung on the ladder to receive it. She peeked over at Mr. Throckmorton, only to find him taking a quick swig of something out of a blue bottle that had been in his pocket.

Before she could stop herself, she arched an eyebrow at him. The last thing they needed was an employer who hit the bottle when he was under duress. To her surprise, as soon as Mr. Throckmorton caught her expression, he turned an even deeper red, and if Flossie wasn’t mistaken, looked ashamed of himself.

She didn’t have time to give that a second thought. The curtains were heavier than she expected them to be. All of her attention went into adjusting her grip, then climbing back up the ladder to hang the rod on the hooks that she had just finished fastening to the wall above the window.

Dora’s gasp should have been her first clue that something was desperately wrong.

“What in God’s name is that?” Mr. Throckmorton boomed a moment later, louder and more frantic than when he had shouted at the bellboy.

Flossie set the rod in place, then looked down. Instantly, she saw the problem. The curtains were two feet too short for the window.

“They look like some bloody schoolboy’s bloody knickers have grown two sizes too short for him,” Mr. Throckmorton bellowed.

He was right. Flossie’s heart pounded as she scurried down the ladder and backpedaled toward Mr. Throckmorton to assess the situation. The window looked ridiculous.

“They’ve sent the wrong curtains,” she sighed, raising a hand to the frilled white cap she wore over her hair.

“Of course they bloody well sent the wrong curtains!” Mr. Throckmorton raged. His voice was loud enough to shatter the windowpane, and desperate fury rippled off him like heat off an inferno. “Oh God.” He gripped both side of his head, gasping for breath. “Lady Elizabeth will be here any moment now. I’ll look like a fool who can’t even hang curtains.”

Dora and the other hotel employees scattered around the dining room shrank back as though a volcano were about to blow. Flossie searched the room, looking for an answer.

“Half an hour,” she said, turning to Mr. Throckmorton as her mind worked. “You said we have half an hour.”

“So?” he yelled, turning to her, eyes wide, a vein throbbing in his temple. “It might as well be half a second at this rate!”

A smooth calm descended over Flossie. Falling apart never solved anything. Her mind continued to turn as she studied the situation.

“This is a bloody catastrophe,” Mr. Throckmorton shouted, though to whom, Flossie had no idea.

She ignored him regardless, and when her eyes scanned across one of the tables at the far end of the room, stacked with freshly ironed tablecloths, she grabbed hold of an idea.

“Tablecloths,” she said, confidence filling her. She stepped away from Mr. Throckmorton and gestured to Dora. “Those tablecloths were ordered for the banquet tables. They’re longer than the windows are tall. How many do we have?”

“Um…ah…I….” Dora stumbled, scurrying after her.

“Twelve,” the young man standing beside the tablecloths said. “We’ve got twelve here.”

Flossie glanced up, calculations flying through her mind. “And six windows. Perfect. Dora, cut small holes in the end of the cloths and slide them onto the rods. We’ll use them as curtains.”

“But they’re the wrong color,” Dora protested. “We’ll ruin them.”

“It doesn’t matter what color they are as long as they match the rest of the room,” Flossie said, grabbing one tablecloth for herself. “And we’ll cut the holes small enough that we’ll be able to mend them later. We can use the same cords to tie them once they’re hung that we were planning to use for the true curtains. No one will know the difference.”

She turned and marched back to the window where she had been working. Mr. Throckmorton stood stock still, watching her with wide eyes. She gave him a quick smile and a nod. If he was going to explode at her, he had better either do it quickly or wait. There was work to be done.

She climbed back onto her ladder until she was able to hold the tablecloth up against the curtain rod that was already in place. The cloth was just a bit too long, but too long was far better than too short. With a satisfied nod, she came down again, unhooking the rod that was already in place and bringing it with her.

“Take this, Dora.” She handed off the tablecloth and the curtain rod when she reached the floor. “Fold up any of the curtains that have already been unpacked. We’ll have to get to the bottom of that later.”

“I believe I have a bill for them in my office,” Mr. Throckmorton said, his voice immeasurably calmer than it had been minutes ago. “I shall telegraph to complain at once.”

Flossie nodded to him. “Yes, sir.” To Dora she said, “I’ll go in search of some scissors.”

Without hesitating, she stepped around the pile of curtains on the floor and marched into the lobby. Mr. Throckmorton followed behind her.

“And what is all this?” He was back to shouting once more as the two of them crossed into the lobby.

The bellhop, who Mr. Throckmorton had shouted at before, now had a bucket and mop and was cleaning up the mess of the shattered flower pot. “You told me to clean it up, sir,” the boy said, cowering.

“Not like that. You’re only creating more mud,” Mr. Throckmorton scolded him. At least his former fire had been quenched somewhat. As Flossie skirted around the desk, searching for scissors, he said, “Lady Elizabeth will be here at any moment, and I have a swamp for a lobby.”

“I’ll mop it up, sir, I promise,” the terrified bellhop said.

Flossie only had one moment to spare a sympathetic glance for the lad. He happened to look up at her as she did, young eyes full of question. Flossie mimed mopping, then gestured to the entire lobby. The boy nodded and set to work.

Mr. Throckmorton darted a glance between the two of them, then strode across the lobby and around the desk into his office. His coat brushed Flossie’s arm as he went.

There wasn’t a pair of scissors to be found on the desk, so Flossie turned and stepped into the doorway of the office.

“Excuse me, sir.” She dipped a quick curtsy to Mr. Throckmorton, who had made it to the far end of the room and was rummaging on a side table, searching for something amongst a pile of loose papers with a pencil in his hand.

“Yes?” he snapped.

“Might I check on your desk for a pair of scissors?”

He whipped to face her and swept her with a sharp look. The edges of that look softened as he took her in. His color rose, and he snapped back to the table. “Yes, fine.”

Flossie wasn’t going to ask questions about what that look was for. She stole over to the desk and began sifting through the mass of confusion atop it. Mr. Throckmorton may have been a hotel magnate with half a dozen establishments across England, but he was wretchedly organized. All of the samples of cloth and wallpaper and even suggested menus put together by the hotel’s cook were jumbled together with newspaper pages and even a pair of gloves. She would have to do more than a little prying to find what she needed.

As it happened, her eyes scanned across something she needed without knowing it just as she found the scissors.

“Sir,” she said, picking up the packing slip that had caught her eye. It was from the company that had provided the curtains.

“Yes?” Mr. Throckmorton barked without facing her.

“Sir, look at this. I believe this is a packing slip for the curtains, and it says quite clearly that they should be twelve feet long and five feet wide.”

Mr. Throckmorton twisted from something he was writing and scowled. “What?”

He took three steps over to the desk and stood beside Flossie, staring at the paper over her shoulder. She could feel the heat radiating from him. Maybe he was a dragon.

“Those bastards,” he said, regardless of whatever sensibilities she might have, standing right there next to him. He snatched the slip from her. “They sent the wrong curtains, damn them.”

“So it should be an easy piece of work to send the ones we have back and to request the correct ones be sent right away,” she said with a smile, then added, “In time for the opening.”

“Yes,” he answered, still looking at the list.

Flossie would have stayed and waited for more, but the tablecloths were waiting. She tucked the scissors into her apron pocket, bobbed a quick curtsy that Mr. Throckmorton didn’t see, then turned and rushed out of the room.

The bellboy had gone straight to work as soon as Flossie had given him what amounted to instructions. He had the whole front half of the marble floor spread with sudsy water and was hard at work, scrubbing at the worst of the muddy spots. It would take a little more work, but with enough time, she was certain he would have the floor sparkling again. As it was, Flossie slipped only a little bit as she hurried back into the dining room.

“Here.” She handed the scissors off to Dora. “But be very careful or we’ll have to order new ones once we’re—”

“What the devil have you done now?” Mr. Throckmorton’s voice thundered from the lobby. “This is a mess!”

Flossie sighed and left Dora to rush back to the lobby. No doubt Mr. Throckmorton was about to decapitate the bellboy, but it had been her suggestion to mop the entire floor. She walked into the scene just as Mr. Throckmorton was crossing from his office.

“We don’t have time for this,” he bellowed.

“Sir, it’s my fault,” Flossie began.

“With all the mud that’s been tracked in today, we’ll—”

His words were cut off as he reached the edge of the area the bellboy had already swabbed only to slip. His feet went out from under him just as Flossie reached his side to apologize. With a sharp yelp, her arms shot out and she grabbed Mr. Throckmorton from the side. His weight shoved against her, and were it not for the fact that her feet were firmly planted on a patch of dry floor, they both would have gone down in a tangle of arms and legs.

As it was, Mr. Throckmorton merely sagged into her. Flossie kept her grip firm around his waist. He was a well-built man at that, muscular and fit under the coat that hid most of his body. She could feel his heart hammering against her shoulder where he was draped over her. For a moment, neither of them moved. The rich scent of shaving soap and freshly laundered linen, along with a faint herbal tang lingered around him.

A moment later and the spell was broken. Shaken, Mr. Throckmorton righted himself and brushed his coat. He met Flossie’s eyes for less than half a second before looking away that same oddly ashamed look in his eyes.

Another second and that look was gone, replaced by panic. “What in God’s name are we going to do about this?” he shouted. “The lobby’s as slick as an icy pond. Lady Elizabeth can’t walk across this, she’ll break her neck. And the mud!”

Flossie swallowed and surveyed the situation. “It shouldn’t take much longer to finish mopping, am I right….” She realized with a start that she hadn’t learned the bellboy’s name yet.

“Frank,” he said.

“Frank,” she repeated. “Can you finish cleaning the lobby in five minutes?”

“Yes?” he answered, sending a terrified look Mr. Throckmorton’s way.

“Good,” Flossie said. “Work hard and fast, Frank, and don’t let anyone else come in the front door for the moment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Frank answered.

She ignored his incorrect deference. There were too many other things to think about. She twisted, checking the area around her as ideas formed.

“You. I’m sorry, what’s your name?” she asked one of the male employees loitering near the bottom of the stairs, too afraid of Mr. Throckmorton to move a muscle.

“Donald,” he said.

“Donald. Are there any runners in the halls upstairs?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Run up and get two. Bring them downstairs, and when Frank here is finished mopping the floor, make a path from the front door to the dining room so that when Lady Elizabeth gets here, she won’t have to set foot on the wet marble.

“Yes, ma’am,” Donald said, then scurried upstairs.

Flossie realized a heartbeat too late that Mr. Throckmorton was standing right next to her still and might take offense to her ordering his employees around.

“I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t presume,” she said.

“No, no, go right ahead,” he said, his voice strange and quiet.

That was it, she had offended him. By the end of the day he would probably send her packing. That would be the true, unmitigated disaster. She needed this job more than she’d needed anything in her life.

She didn’t have long to think about that. A heartbeat later and one of the scrawny scullery maids came running into the lobby from the dining room. She already looked as though she was being chased by a pack of hounds, but when she slipped on the wet marble and skidded several feet, she screamed.

“What now?” Mr. Throckmorton snapped at her, quieter still than he had been the last time.

“S-sir.” The poor girl quivered in front of him.

“What?” he answered moving to take a ginger step toward her, deciding against it, and staying right where he was.

“T-the c-cook, sir,” the scullery maid said.

“What about her?”

“S-she’s gone off.”

“What?” Mr. Throckmorton’s color began to rise again.

“She’s gone, sir,” the poor girl continued, wringing her hands in her grubby apron and appealing to Flossie for help. “T-the boy she’s been walking out with. H-he came b-by with a ring. She’s gone off to m-marry him.”

“What, now?” Mr. Throckmorton gaped at her, mouth staying open. He shoved a hand into his hair.

Flossie could practically hear him thinking “But Lady Elizabeth will be here any moment.”

As if he could hear her putting words into his head, he turned to her, eyes wide, face and neck splotched with red all over again. “And do you have a solution to this too?” he bellowed. “Are you going to march down to the kitchen and prepare high tea yourself?”

“I will if I have to, sir,” she replied before she could think better of it.

Mr. Throckmorton blinked. His shoulders dropped as well as his jaw. He stared at her.

Flossie’s mind was too busy working to be intimidated by the intensity of his gaze. “Did she have a chance to prepare anything for this afternoon’s tea?” she asked the scullery maid.

The poor, terrified girl shook her head. “No, ma’am. She was halfway through fixing sandwiches for the staff lunch. We didn’t notice she’d left until just now, when Samuel came down looking for a bite.”

“I’m ruined,” Mr. Throckmorton muttered, voice strained. “She’ll think I’m a fool. A bloody, damned fool.”

Flossie ignored him. “Is there a tea shop in town?” she asked whoever would answer.

“Patty’s Pastries sells high tea, ma’am,” Frank told her as he worked.

It was exactly what they needed. Flossie turned to Mr. Throckmorton. He looked as though he would either weep or fall into a rage or have an aneurism on the spot.

“Sir,” she said. “Might we give the scullery maid a note to run down to Patty’s Pastries, entreating them to make a high tea for you and for Lady Elizabeth with all haste? They may already have most of the essentials ready-made. I’m sure Patty would be grateful for this and future business and would extend you credit.”

“Her name ain’t really Patty,” Frank said. “It’s Gertrude, but that don’t rhyme with pastries.”

Flossie ignored him, taking a step closer to Mr. Throckmorton to push him to action.

A new but just as intense emotion crossed through his expression. It was something midway between gratitude and embarrassment at flying off the handle.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

Without another word, he turned and marched back into his office. Flossie was satisfied that he would know what to do and headed to the stairs to help Donald bring down the runners from the upstairs hallway.

“We can clean them after today,” she told Donald and Frank as the three of them worked to get them in place once the floor was washed.

She only caught a glimpse of Mr. Throckmorton as he came out of his office with the note for the scullery maid. There wasn’t time to stand and watch to make sure he gave it to her and that the frightened girl headed off as she was supposed to. Flossie was needed in the dining room to make sure the tablecloth curtains were coming along. Without the threat of Mr. Throckmorton, the dragon, coming in and disrupting the work, the crew in the dining room had made quick progress. Four of the six windows in the room already had tablecloth-draped rods hanging from the windows, and a team of maids was going around fastening the braided cords to draw them back, letting in the sunlight.

“Perfect,” Flossie breathed to herself. There was other work that needed to be done, though. “Dora, when you can, would you and Richard take the rest of these curtain parcels to the pantry? They need to be returned.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Richard answered.

“And once that’s done, we need to arrange the tables in here as artistically as possible, with one decorated specially for Lady Elizabeth.”

“I can do that,” Dora said, then, with a broad grin, added, “My, but you do know how to take charge.”

Flossie blinked. She had taken charge, hadn’t she. It hadn’t been her place to do so. On the other hand, someone had needed to do something. Lucky for them, everything seemed to fall into place now. She thought she even saw Mr. Throckmorton entertain the ghost of a smile as he stood inside of the dining room doorway from the lobby. His eyes met hers across the room and he nodded.

Flossie bobbed a curtsy in return, then busied herself with the rest of the preparations.

By the time Lady Elizabeth’s cheerful voice rang in the lobby with, “My dear Mr. Throckmorton, I am greatly impressed,” Flossie knew that she’d done her job well. The dining room was as spotless as though they hadn’t spent all morning working like dogs to set it to right. The curtains weren’t noticeable as anything but curtains in the windows. Flossie scurried across the room with the other employees who had finished perfecting the scene for tea to line up just inside of the dining room door. They were in place and ready when Mr. Throckmorton escorted Lady Elizabeth through the doorway.

“My staff has worked exceptionally hard to arrange this treat for you today, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, voice perfectly calm and grand.

He wasn’t smiling, though. Flossie wondered if that had something to do with Polly and Lady Charlotte Dyson trailing behind Lady Elizabeth. She thought he had said Lady Elizabeth was coming alone.

“What a delightful dining room,” Lady Elizabeth complimented, looking around the room. “So spacious. And what a lovely shade of blue for those curtains.”

It was all Flossie could do not to burst with laughter. It was hard enough to hold her triumph in, but at that moment, Mr. Throckmorton glanced her way. Their eyes met, and his mouth twitched into something that had to be a grin. Flossie’s sense of triumph grew, especially when Polly caught her eye and gave her a covert thumbs-up and an excited smile. With all the turmoil of the morning, it could have been a disaster, but it hadn’t been. In fact, Flossie was fairly sure that nothing but good things could come from the extravaganza.

Jason

“Well, this has been a simply splendid afternoon,” Lady E. said, laying her napkin across the empty plate in front of her and inching out of her chair to rise. Jason pushed his chair back and stood with her. “The tea was delicious. Please give your cook my compliments.”

“Indeed I will, Lady Elizabeth,” he replied with all the grace and dignity of a lord who had mastered the art of entertaining a woman.

Even though the truth was a thousand miles from that.

His gaze darted to the side of the room where Flossie stood at attention, the maid Dora beside her. Flossie’s hands were behind her back and a pleasant smile on her pretty face. Those blue eyes of hers danced with triumph, and well they should.

God, how he wanted her.

He stopped that thought cold, snapping his back to a rigidly straight posture and training his eyes firmly on Lady E’s beautiful face. Lady E. was everything he wanted in a woman, refined, sophisticated, commanding. Her golden hair and sky-blue eyes would inspire poets for generations to come. He had loved her since the moment he first laid eyes on her.

She was not, however, the one who had set his own body in torment against him. He’d been hard ever since Flossie caught him and prevented him from spilling to the wet lobby floor.

Wet. He couldn’t let himself think that word either. Not if he was going to survive the afternoon. He stole a glance down the front of his coat to be sure it hid all evidence of his affliction. So far, so good.

“And I simply can’t wait until your gardens are finished.” Lady E. had continued speaking while his thoughts had plunged into darkly carnal territory.

He willed himself to pay attention to her, pleaded with his body not to betray him, not now.

“You shall be the first to have a tour of the finished product,” he told her, smiling stiffly.

“Won’t that be enjoyable,” Lady Charlotte said.

Damn her, Jason had not meant for Lady E. to bring her nosy aunt along with her to tea or to the future tour of the garden. He hadn’t expected the damned lady’s maid to tag along either. Why Lady E. insisted on bringing the shrewd-eyed girl with her wherever she went was beyond him.

“And now, my dear,” Lady Charlotte continued as Jason escorted them through the dining room toward the lobby, “I should like to make a stop at the hospital before returning home.”

“Oh, no, Aunt Charlotte,” Lady E. said, pink with sudden alarm.

“Are you unwell, Lady Charlotte?” Jason asked. Hopefully, showing concern for the aunt would entice the niece.

“I am perfectly well, Mr. Throckmorton, thank you for asking,” Lady Charlotte said. “I have another concern I should like to investigate at the hospital.”

“But if you are not well, what possible point could there be in darkening that door?” Lady E. asked, more agitated by the moment. She exchanged a panicked look with her maid.

Even Jason, dolt that he was, could see something was amiss. He owed it to Marshall to put in a good word where he could, though, and said, “Perhaps you wish to make a contribution to the hospital’s operating fund? I hear they are in dire need of patrons, and you, Lady Charlotte, would make the perfect patroness.”

“Well.” Lady Charlotte broke into a smile that was almost genuine. “What a glowing recommendation. Thank you, Mr. Throckmorton.”

“You’re welcome, my lady.”

They had reached the lobby and the open door leading out to the gardens. Jason spared a glance over his shoulder to find Flossie and Dora already at work cleaning up the table from tea. Flossie glanced up and met his eyes. Jason motioned for her to stay right where she was for one moment, then stepped out onto the afternoon sunshine with the ladies.

“Really, Aunt Charlotte, we can’t,” Lady E. petitioned her aunt.

“My dear, while you are technically my social superior, you are still my niece. I have suspicions that must be satisfied.”

“If there is anything else I can do for you ladies,” Jason attempted to interrupt, as gracious as he could be, “please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Aunt Charlotte, there is nothing to be suspicious about,” Lady E. replied, proving Jason’s attempts to be an utter failure. She and Lady Charlotte hurried down the lane to the hotel’s gate, the maid Polly following them. “I’m certain that Alexandra merely took a long detour on the way home from her walk, and that’s why she wasn’t able to come with us.” She gasped and pivoted to face Jason at the end of the path, by the gate. “Thank you once again, Mr. Throckmorton,” she said with a brief wave before charging away, pleading with her aunt.

Jason let out a breath, feeling like a failure in spite of his success. His hard-won success. A success that wasn’t his at all.

He turned back to the hotel, catching sight of Lawrence at work on another grate. A young woman whom he’d never seen before, her hands and feet bandaged, sat on one of the garden’s few patches of newly installed grass. He would investigate that later. At the moment, he had other pipers to pay.

“Flossie!” he called out when he strode back into the lobby.

She was already at the door to the dining room and stepped lightly forward to meet him. “Yes, Mr. Throckmorton?”

That clever lilt in her voice. The brightness in her eyes. The eagerness with which she rushed to please. Heaven help him.

“I think we both know that it is you I must thank for the day’s success,” he said without preamble. The longer he spent talking to this glittering gem of femininity, the worse his temptation would be. After months of strict abstinence, it was bound to happen eventually.

“I only did my job, Mr. Throckmorton,” Flossie answered.

“No, you did a great deal more than that,” he confessed. She’d saved his hide. Now he had to save hers before he ravaged it. “I should like you to find that packing slip for the curtains and send a telegram to the distributor immediately.”

“Me, Mr. Throckmorton?” She blinked up at him, a pleasing flush coming to her smooth cheeks.

“Yes,” he barked, far more harsh than he intended to be, and with too deep a frown. “You will know what to say to them. Compose a strongly-worded complaint and do what must be done to obtain the correct curtains before the hotel opens.”

“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton,” she replied.

“And when you’ve finished with that,” he went on, itching to get as far away from her as fast as he could before the pressure in his groin unmanned him right in front of her, “I should like for you to straighten and organize my office.”

“Sir?” She blinked even harder now, gaping up at him. “Your office?”

“Yes,” he snapped. “It’s a horrible mess. I’m certain that you can devise some means of making sense of it all.”

“Y-yes, Mr. Throckmorton,” she said, though she seemed stunned.

It was probably the scope of what he was asking her to do. He was the owner, after all, her employer, and here he was asking her to sort through his things. The intimacy of the task—

No, no, he would not allow his mind to go there. Rippling with pain and frustration, he turned away from her and marched back out into the garden. He turned down one of the finished paths, shaking out his arms and forcing himself to take deep breaths that filled his lungs with air and expelled all of demons that clawed at him. A normal man would have control over his own faculties. A normal man would not turn into a raving monster at the sight of a pretty, competent girl.

He slid the blue bottle out of his pocket, popped the cork from the top, and took a long swig. Marshall was right, it was mostly alcohol with a trace of what tasted like chamomile tea and the faintest hint of opium. Perhaps he should consider taking to the black market to find some pure opium, though he doubted even that would suit his purpose. He was an utterly lost cause.

Slapping the cork back into the now mostly empty bottle, Jason slipped the bottle into his coat pocket and continued around the edge of the hotel to where he had seen Lawrence working. As he approached, the young woman with him glanced up at him and flinched.

“Lawrence,” he made his presence known, smiling as kindly as he could at the woman. “How does the work progress?”

“Jason.” Lawrence stepped back from the window well where he had been working and stood straight. He rested his hands on his hips, glanced down with a hint of a wince, over to the girl, then up to meet his eyes. “I’ve run into a slight delay.”

A wave of panic washed through Jason that was almost enough to douse his errant lust. “A delay?”

Once again, Lawrence glanced to the girl. “Jason, this is Matty.” He reached for the woman’s hand, helping her to her bandaged feet.

Jason turned to study her. She was a wisp of a thing, very young, and dressed in something that looked like it had come out of the rag bag. In short, she reminded him of the girls who he’d grown up with.

“How do you do?” He bowed to her with the utmost, genuine courtesy.

The young woman smiled and murmured, “Well, thank you.”

Jason had the odd feeling she was anything but. It might have been the bruises that littered her face and arms. He glanced to Lawrence for answers.

“Matty showed up out of the rain at the forge last night,” he explained. “She’s lost her memory, and as you can see, showed up in a bad way.”

“I’m so sorry.” His own problems vanished for a moment as pity took over in his gut. “Lost your memory, you say?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, looking to Lawrence for help.

“We’ve been to the hospital. Marshall and his new woman doctor examined her. Aside from the obvious, they can’t find anything wrong with her,” Lawrence explained.

“I’ve always been given to understand that head trauma is the cause of memory loss,” Jason said.

“It isn’t that.” Lawrence shook his head. “Until we find out what it is, Matty will be staying with me at the forge.”

Jason fought his first instinct to ask if that would slow down the desperately-needed work. Instead he asked, “Have there been any reports of missing persons in the county? If you arrived on foot, surely you can’t have come from far away.”

“Missing persons reports,” Lawrence said, bobbing his head as though he hadn’t thought of that. “I should check with the constable as soon as possible.”

Matty drew in a quick breath, fear in her eyes. Fear in her eyes, now that the possibility of checking with law enforcement had been mentioned. Jason couldn’t help but meet that with suspicion.

“You are in good hands with my friend Lawrence here,” he said to Matty all the same, then glanced to Lawrence. “He knows what he’s doing.”

In truth, it was a question that asked Lawrence if he did know what he was doing. The answering grin that his friend gave him was a solid yes. Well, he would leave it up to Lawrence, and if there was trouble, he would help where he could.

“I’m glad that the work here is coming along,” he said, thumping Lawrence on the arm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to a certain Patty’s Pastries and thank them for a service well done with copious amounts of cash.”

Lawrence gave him a curious look, but said no more. Heaven only knew how he would have explained if there had been questions. If worst came to worse, he could call Flossie out to answer. She would handle it more deftly than he ever could.

Marshall

It was a rare day when things actually went well at the hospital, but there they were, swimming right along.

“What do we have here, Dr. Dyson?” he asked, pausing in the doorway of one of the examination rooms on his way to the waiting room to fetch another patient. The joy of addressing someone as “doctor” in his hospital after so long on his own was far deeper than any he had experienced in years.

“Another case of bronchitis, Dr. Pycroft,” Alexandra answered him, sounding as pleased as he was. “It seems as if the disease has reached the level of epidemic to the north.”

“I’m afraid it has,” he said, far too happy for his words.

“I’ve prescribed rest and liquids and cherry syrup for the cough, but we really need to order some more potent medicines as soon as possible,” she said.

There was such excitement in her eyes, such a sense of purpose. Marshall hadn’t seen anyone so thrilled to practice medicine since his own days as an intern in London. It was a blessed balm to have a cheerful soul so nearby. Fate, it seemed, had finally decided to be kind to him. He felt as though he’d turned a corner.

“We’ll go through the next order together,” he said. “Once all of the patients have been seen and the night staff have arrived. Then I can show you—”

“You can’t stop me,” a female voice called from the end of the hall, near the waiting room.

For a moment, Marshall’s heart plummeted into his stomach at the thought that Clara was back to torment him again. But this was another voice, and this time it was Alexandra who blanched.

“Oh no,” she said, stepping away from the examination table and heading for the door.

“Aunt Charlotte, please,” a second female voice pleaded.

Marshall stepped into the hall right behind Alexandra, only to find Lady Elizabeth and her aunt, Lady Charlotte, at the end of the hall. Mrs. Garforth was trying her best to fend them off while still showing deference.

“Mother,” Alexandra breathed beside him.

The pieces clicked into place. Dr. Alexandra Dyson was a lady, not just a woman.

“Alexandra,” Lady Charlotte exclaimed, pulling herself to her full height in outrage. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

All at once, the joy that had kept Marshall through the afternoon fizzled. Fate wasn’t being kind to him, it was simply playing another, cruel joke.

“Mother, I am a grown woman. You have no right to control my life as though I was still in the nursery,” Alexandra answered her, matching her mother’s posture and stepping toward her. “I’ve taken a job as a doctor here at the hospital.”

“I can see that,” Lady Charlotte sneered, glancing down at the stained apron Alexandra wore. “I am disgusted by it.”

Alexandra’s jaw flexed and she planted her hands on her hips. “I do not care whether you are disgusted or delighted, mother. This is my life and my choice.”

Just as they had when Clara had been there haranguing him, patients began to peek around the doorways of the examination rooms and waiting room, and a few curious faces appeared around the bend in the stairs. It seemed the hospital was as good as a theater these days.

“I blame you” Lady Charlotte surprised Marshall by turning her wrath on him.

“Me, my lady?” he balked.

“Yes, you,” she repeated. “My wayward daughter’s conniving accomplice.”

Lady or not, Marshall was not about to take the insult lying down. “With all due respect, my lady, the hospital has been in need of another qualified doctor for quite some time.”

“Then find one, sir,” Lady Charlotte snapped.

“I have, ma’am,” Marshall answered, his temper flaring.

Lady Charlotte snorted. “My daughter is no qualified doctor. She is a spoiled girl whose father allowed her delusions of a life that will never suit her.”

“Mother, that is not true,” Alex growled. “Father supported my medical education. I have been practicing for years. Why do you suddenly object now?”

“I never complained about your quaint country practice,” Lady Charlotte said.

“Yes you did,” Alexandra interrupted.

“But to have my daughter, a gentleman’s daughter, demeaning herself by touching the sick and decrepit out where everyone can see her—”

“Dr. Dyson has proved herself to be a more than capable doctor so far, ma’am,” Marshall defended her, defended his own choice to hire her.

“Perhaps, Dr. Pycroft,” Lady Charlotte said, squeezing her eyes shut as fury overtook her, “a better solution to your problems would be a financial one.”

“I’m sorry?” he asked, dreading where the conversation was headed.

Lady Charlotte opened her eyes and stared daggers at him. “If you dismiss my daughter, I can assure you that I and several of my very generous friends will provide you with ample donations to fund your endeavors here.”

The breath rushed out of Marshall’s lungs. Money. It was as sorely needed as medical help.

“Mother,” Alexandra hissed. She must have sensed where her mother was headed.

“If you do not choose to dismiss my daughter,” Lady Charlotte went on, “then you may soon find that it will become quite difficult to obtain donations for your hospital from any of the great families of Cumbria.”

There it was, the twist of the knife. The money that those families gave was little enough in the first place, but it was essential. To cut it off would mean desperation.

“Mother, I have heard enough of these threats,” Alexandra railed. “Is that all you are?  Bully who uses money as a weapon?”

“Hold your tongue, Alexandra,” Lady Charlotte snapped.

“I will not,” Alexandra replied. “I have held my tongue long enough. I will do as my conscience dictates.”

“Then you and your friend here will face the consequences,” Lady Charlotte finished. “Come along, Elizabeth. We are done here.”

With that, Lady Charlotte spun on her heel and marched down the hall and into the waiting room. The patients and hospital staff both leaned out of her way and went scattering, like ants in a storm. Lady Elizabeth sent Alexandra a pinched, sympathetic look, mouthing the words “I’m sorry,” before turning and following her aunt out of the hallway.

Marshall stood where he was, watching the dying scene, shaking. Whether it was with rage or with fear had yet to be determined.

“I am so sorry, Dr. Pycroft,” Alexandra told him with a shaky sigh as soon as they heard the front door slam. “My mother is unforgivable.”

“It seems we all have our family drama,” Marshall said. It should have been a joke, but every word of it came out far too seriously. He let out a breath, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “We need the money.”

“I will leave if you want me to,” Alexandra said, stepping closer to her, “but I have no wish to leave. I have no wish to cave to my mother’s demands.”

“I understand,” Marshall began, “but—”

“You give her what-for, lady doctor,” one of the patients, old Horace, hollered from the stairs.

Marshal clenched his jaw. He had no wish to hash this out in public. “Come into my office, Dr. Dyson,” he said and turned to march down the hall.

Simon was standing behind them, a broom and dust pan in his hands. “Um, I’ve just started cleaning the office, Dr. Pycroft, sir.”

Marshall huffed. “All right then, let us find somewhere else to speak in private, Dr. Dyson.”

He did the only thing he could think of on short notice with his temper so out of joint. He switched directions and marched down the hall toward the waiting room, gesturing for Alexandra to follow him. Once again, the patients who were watching parted, letting them through. Marshall kept marching, Alexandra keeping close behind him, until they had stormed out through the front door and into the late afternoon sunshine.

The busy thoroughfare at the intersection of the High Street and Lake Street was a surprisingly good place to hold a private conversation. All around, people were walking and shopping, rushing on their way to specific destinations or popping by the pub for a drink. No one cared to stop and interrupt or eavesdrop on a conversation held in lowered voices between two doctors standing close together.

“The hospital cannot afford to lose the few benefactors that is has, Dr. Dyson,” Marshall laid the situation out. “We barely squeak by as it is.”

“I understand, Dr. Pycroft.” Alexandra nodded, arms crossed, face grim. She lowered her head.

“But neither can we afford to lose a physician.”

Alexandra glanced up, her eyes filling with hope. Just as quickly, it crumpled. “I want to work here, more than anything.”

“I can see that.” Marshall nodded. “It’s one of the things that recommends you the most.”

“I feel as though I’m needed here,” she went on.

“And so you are,” he agreed. On more than one level.

Her face pinched with indecision. “I can’t be the cause of ruin for this hospital, as much as I long to be a part of it.”

“You would only be a source of ruin if your mother intends to follow through on her threats. Do you think she does?” he asked.

Alexandra sighed and dropped her arms. “I can only imagine that she does. Mother is difficult. I wouldn’t put it past her to do anything.”

She finished speaking, then glanced up and across the street. Her expression grew wary, and when Marshall followed her gaze, he saw why. Lady Charlotte and Lady Elizabeth and her maid had just come out of a confectioner’s shop across the street. Lady Charlotte noticed her daughter across the busy intersection, and her expression hardened. Lady Elizabeth leaned toward her to say something, but they were too far away to be overheard, and a carriage sped through the intersection, blocking them from sight for a moment.

“Mother will never let me rest until she’s found a way to torment me to death,” Alexandra said.

Marshall laughed before he could stop himself. “Perhaps your mother and my wife are related somehow.”

Alexandra shared a wary and knowing look with him. Almost as if they were friends.

“Perhaps we could come to some other arrangement that would suit my mother and the hospital both,” she said, though she didn’t sound convincing. “Some way I could split my time between—”

“Marshall!”

Clara’s shrill cry echoed across the intersection. Another carriage galloped up from the road that led to the train station, and she stepped to the side. Little Martha followed behind her, clutching Clara’s hand, but Mary and Molly were nowhere to be seen.

“Marshall Pycroft, you will explain the meaning of this,” Clara shouted from the other side of the street.

He suspected that she stood where she was for dramatic effect. The whole intersection, including Lady Charlotte, Lady Elizabeth, and her maid, could hear whatever she had to say.

“Oh Lord,” Marshall sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another, blasted woman.”

“Your daughters are staging a mutiny,” Clara continued to shout. “They have insisted—” her words were cut off as another wagon loaded with goods rumbled through the intersection and around the corner. As soon as it was gone, she tried again. “They have insisted that they shall make dresses for themselves with the fabric you insist on buying for me instead of a fine dress.”

“I shall buy them fabric for their own dresses,” Marshall replied, though where he would find the money, he had no idea. “Come over here and we’ll discuss it.”

“What’s wrong?” Clara shouted back. “Are you afraid of your neighbors knowing how much of skinflint you’ve become? Are you afraid of Mr. Throckmorton, your good friend, finding out?”

She gestured, and Marshall turned to see Jason stepping out of the gate to his hotel. He sent his friend a weary smile in greeting. Jason frowned and shrugged, asking what was going on.

“Clara, enough of this. You’re embarrassing me, and yourself,” Marshall called across to his wife.

“Oh, I’m embarrassing you?” Clara barked. She let go of Martha’s hand and threw her arms skywards.

It happened so fast that Marshall barely had time to react. As soon as Martha was free, she tore into the street, crossing the intersection to run toward him. At the same time, a carriage-and-four came careening down the hill. Clara noticed a split second later.

“Martha!” she screamed and tore into the street after her.

The horses didn’t see her. The driver of the carriage shouted, but it was too late. Before Marshall could open his mouth and draw in breath to shout “No!” the carriage crashed into the intersection. Martha jumped forward, flying out of the carriage’s path by a thread. Clara wasn’t as lucky. The lead two horses smashed into her with a force that silenced Clara’s cry in an instant. All Marshall could see was a blur of legs and hooves, skirts and limbs as the first pair and then the second pair of horses trampled her. The driver shouted and lost hold of the reins as the carriage itself bumped and barreled right over Clara’s prone form, then thundered on, out of control.

Another second that seemed like a lifetime passed, and the dust cleared, Clara lay in the road, her arms spread at impossible angles. Lady Elizabeth screamed, as did several other ladies who had observed the whole, horrible thing.

“No!” Marshall shouted again. He lunged forward, mind numb with the horror of what he’d just witnessed. He flew out into the street without regard for anyone or anything else, then fell to his knees at Clara’s side. Her body was crushed and bloodied.

“Don’t move her,” Alexandra shouted at his side a moment later, steady and professional. “Keep her as still as possible. Check for a pulse.”

She searched frantically over Clara’s body for some place to start. Her fingers worked the buttons at Clara’s collar, as if that would help to give her air.

“Somebody block the road,” a man shouted, possibly Jason.

A child screamed, Martha, but Marshall heard it as though it was at the end of a tunnel. He crouched where he was, frozen, eyes wide as he studied Clara’s twisted face.

“Multiple fractures, probably internal bleeding, and I don’t like the look of that laceration,” Alexandra rattled off the list of what she saw, but there was a strained, desperate tone to her voice. “We have to,” she started, but stopped to pant. “We have to….”

She didn’t go on. She must have known what Marshall had known from the first instant. There was no hope. Clara was dead.