The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  Hugh’s reply was an artificial grin bordering on a grimace. As he rose to his feet, one of his knees cracked.

  “You know anything about Miss Aubrey having a man of business?” Matthew asked, and quickly wished he had not.

  “Man of business?” Hugh’s brows formed a dark V. “What sort of business would she have to conduct?”

  “I don’t know. I saw her speak with a man as he was leaving the gatehouse, and hand him a parcel. She mentioned he was her friend who assists her in matters of business.”

  Hugh’s voice rose. “You saw her give the man a parcel?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “A large parcel?” he asked eagerly.

  Matthew marked off a rectangle with his hands. “Fairly large. About the size of a book, I would say.”

  “A book?” He frowned. “Did you get the man’s name?”

  “No. She did not say. I asked her maid when I passed her, but she either could not or would not tell me. Seemed to make her nervous when I asked.”

  “I wonder why.” Hugh’s eyes were far away in thought. “What is Miss Aubrey up to?”

  When Dixon showed Hugh Prin-Hallsey into the drawing room, Mariah quickly tucked her page of new story ideas inside a volume of Johnson’s dictionary. “Hugh! I mean, Mr. Prin-Hallsey. This is a surprise.” She rose and curtsied. “How do you do?”

  He swept off his hat, giving her a stiff, perfunctory bow. “I could be better, Miss Aubrey.”

  “Oh? Might I help you with something?”

  “Indeed I hope you can.” He turned his hat around in his manicured hands. Hands that did not match his lank, unwashed hair and unshaven face. “I am looking for something, you see. Something that belongs to me.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Something your aunt had in her possession before she died. I wonder if, perhaps, she gave it to you? Not realizing she had no right to do so.”

  She stared at him, thinking back to the things her aunt had brought over, and to her warnings about Hugh.

  “She did give you something?” he asked eagerly. “Never fear, I will not blame you. You may not have realized your aunt’s error. How could you?”

  Mariah slowly shook her head. “My aunt gave me nothing of value, if that is what you mean. She only came to call on me once, soon after I moved in here. To see me settled.”

  “And she made you a gift?”

  “Only a few small things for the house.”

  “What? What?” His eyes were feverish. Nearly manic, she thought.

  Mariah shrugged uneasily. “Only a basket of kitchen things. A tin of tea, another of coffee. A few candles, and a packet of biscuits.”

  “A tin? Have you it still?”

  She hesitated. “I think so.”

  “Then let me see it.” He turned to the kitchen door through which he had so recently stepped, and held it open for her. She had little choice but to precede him into the kitchen.

  Dixon spun around from her place at the worktable as they entered, her softly lined face grimacing. “Bless me, but you startled me.”

  “I am sorry, Dixon. Might you put the kettle on? It seems Mr. Prin-Hallsey has a sudden longing for tea.” She turned to the man. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

  “I don’t – Whichever you prefer is fine. The tin, Miss Aubrey?”

  Mariah led the way to the larder, feeling Dixon’s concerned gaze on her back. She quickly located the ornamental tea tin – they had reused it over and over again, as the original few ounces of Ceylon had long since been used up.

  He grabbed the tin from her, pried open the lid, and began shifting the loose tea this way and that as though to see to the bottom.

  “Here.” She took it from him, dumped the tea leaves into a bowl, and then handed it back. He looked inside the now-empty tin.

  “Nothing,” he murmured.

  What had he expected to find?

  She had more difficulty finding the old coffee tin.

  “Dixon? Do you remember what we did with that blue enamel coffee tin my aunt gave us when first we came?”

  “Oh.” Dixon wiped her hands on her apron. “Just a moment and I’ll fetch it.”

  She returned from her own room a few moments later and offered the blue tin as though one of the magi presenting a gift.

  Hugh pulled it from her and carelessly ripped off the lid, sending a clattering shower of buttons and pins scuttling across the kitchen floor. Dixon’s face crumpled as though her last few shillings had been cast upon the sea, irretrievable.

  “There is nothing here,” Hugh announced. “What else did you say she gave you?”

  “Just some biscuits, wrapped in paper, which are long gone I am afraid.”

  Dixon added, “And your aunt gave us a candle – ”

  “Several candles,” Mariah interrupted quickly, with a warning look at Dixon. “But those are long gone as well.”

  “Dash it.” Hugh dropped his head, rubbed his long-fingered hand over his unkempt hair, and fought for control. “Well.” He straightened abruptly. “Pardon the intrusion. I trust, cousin Mariah, that should you remember anything else your aunt gave you, you will not hesitate to let me know?”

  Mariah nodded, but the promise would not come.

  Once Hugh had gone, Mariah helped Dixon gather up the spilled buttons. Then she lit a candle and walked slowly upstairs to the attic. There, she pulled the old key from around her neck and knelt before her aunt’s chest. She had resisted opening it to this point. But now . . . What in the world did he think was inside? Surely there was nothing to her aunt’s jest about “treasure.” Was it possible Hugh had believed it?

  She slid the key into the lock and tried to turn it. It would not give. She jiggled it in the slot and tried again. Click. She raised the lid and lifted her candle high to see inside. On top was a lace shawl, curiously like the one she kept in her own trunk. She set it aside. Under it, she found two pairs of gloves, a stack of old ledgers, two novels, and two miniature portraits – one of Aunt Fran’s son and one of Mariah’s uncle Norris, both long dead. She peered more closely at the one of her mother’s brother. How bittersweet to see his face again after so many years. What a funny, lovable man he had been.

  Setting these aside, she picked up the first of what appeared to be several large, heavy ledgers. Household accounts? Journals? She had no interest in the former and wondered if it would be proper to read the latter. But had Francesca Prin-Hallsey not left them in her care? What had she said . . . ? “Wait until after I am dead and buried, and then you may sift through my things.” Something like it, at any rate.

  She lifted the cover of the first volume and began to read.

  The Prin-Hallseys wish everyone to think they are from an old, good family with close connections to the nobility. But the truth of the matter is that old Horace Hallsey made his living as a tailor. But after listening to his patrons – many of them personages of quality – he acquired several useful investment strategies, the ability to mimic an upper-crust accent, and a style of conversation pleasing to the ton. He added the Prin to his surname, taken from his mother’s maiden name, because he thought it made him sound aristocratic, and to distance himself from the name of his family’s well-known London business, Hallsey and Sons. He met his first wife at Covent Garden. An actress . . .

  Mariah shook her head. No wonder Aunt Fran didn’t want these journals to become public until after her death. Did it also explain why she had given them to Mariah – did she fear Hugh would destroy them, should they fall into his hands?

  The candle guttered, and Mariah’s knees began to ache. She decided she would take the journals down to her room to read them in greater comfort at her leisure.

  When a hired post-chaise stopped before the gatehouse three days later, Mariah hurried to the window, fearing who it might be this time.

  It was Henry. What was he doing back so soon? She was not expecting him, especially midweek. And why the carriage to her door instead of taking the coach f
rom Oxford to Whitmore and then walking the rest of the way as usual? Why the hurry, the added expense?

  She could tell nothing from his expression, hat pulled low against the drizzle, frock coattails whipping in the wind. He carried a parcel under one arm and held a valise in the other. Had Mr. Crosby rejected her second manuscript already?

  She hurried to the door and flung it wide. “Henry, what is it? Is everything all right?”

  A slow smile lifted one side of his mouth. “You tell me.” He handed her the brown-paper-wrapped parcel, and she took it in her arms like a mother takes a child. It was solid, rectangular. Her heart began pounding. Could it be? So soon?

  Henry said, “Am I to come in or stand in the wet?”

  “Oh. Do come in,” she murmured as she stepped back, her eyes and thoughts on the parcel. She set it on the table and carefully began to pull away the paper.

  Henry wiped his feet and removed his hat. “Come on, Rye, for once in your life, just tear in.”

  She felt slightly offended at his remark but was too distracted to do more than shoot him a look. She ripped the paper and let it fall to the floor. She stared, eyes wide, nerves jangling.

  There it was. In her hands.

  A Winter in Bath

  by Lady A

  “Is it real?” Mariah breathed.

  “No, my dear, it is fiction.” Henry grinned. “At least, I hope it is.”

  “Goose.” She glanced at him, but her eyes were quickly drawn back to the book. “I did not expect it so soon.”

  “And that is not all. Crosby says he is interested in Daughters as well, though he wants to read more before he commits. Is that not good news?”

  “Yes.”

  Henry smiled and tapped the book cover. “Then I say this calls for a celebration.”

  Happiness bubbled inside her. “And I say you are perfectly right.”

  They were sitting around the kitchen table – Mariah, Henry, Dixon, and even Martin – when Captain Bryant appeared at the back door, propped open to allow the rain-washed air to cool the kitchen, still overly warm from the cooking fire.

  “Captain Bryant!” Dixon, cheeks flushed from the champagne Henry had brought, rose quickly to open wide the door.

  There was nothing else to do. He wasn’t at the front door, where one might send him away with a manufactured excuse. He was right there at the kitchen door and had already seen them sitting together, talking and laughing.

  While Captain Bryant exchanged greetings with Dixon, Mariah slid the book from the table onto her lap.

  “Excuse me, I did not mean to intrude,” he said, shifting the basket he held to his other arm.

  “Never mind,” Dixon said. “We are only doing a bit of celebrating.”

  “Oh? Celebrating what?”

  They all looked at Mariah.

  She faltered, “I . . . that is . . . does one need an excuse to celebrate?”

  “Normally, yes.”

  Mariah noticed the speculative challenge in his eyes. What could she say without giving away her secret?

  Martin leaned back in his chair and casually crossed his arms. “It is my birthday, Captain. I don’t like a fuss, but there’s no reasoning with women. Not when they’ve got their minds set on something.”

  Mariah was surprised and relieved at Martin’s quick thinking. Or was it true?

  “Well. Happy birthday, Mr. Martin.” The captain directed his disconcerted and disconcerting gaze on Mariah. “I shan’t keep you. I have caught several trout and a few grayling as well. More than Cook can use at present. I thought you might like them.”

  “That was very kind of you, Captain Bryant. Was that not kind, Dixon?”

  Dixon nodded vigorously. “Very.”

  Captain Bryant eyed Henry, who nodded a greeting, but no one offered an introduction.

  “Martin has made a cake,” Mariah said brightly instead. “Will you not join us, Captain?”

  “I thank you, no. I had no intention of intruding on your . . . celebration.” He set the fish basket on the sideboard, gave a curt bow, and let himself out.

  An awkward silence followed his departure. Henry and Mariah regarded one another somberly as Dixon busied herself with the fish and Martin rose to help her.

  “Tell him what you must, Rye,” Henry said. “I had rather risk my small inheritance than your reputation.”

  Mariah shook her head. “No, Henry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Mariah blew out a puff of air. Excusing herself, she threw on a shawl and ran sprightly outside and toward the great house, careful to avoid the worst of the puddles.

  She saw him ahead on the curved drive.

  “Captain Bryant, wait!”

  He turned and stood where he was as she approached. She noticed with chagrin that he did not meet her partway, nor with a welcoming smile.

  “May I ask, Captain,” she began, pausing to catch her breath, “if you have any acquaintance in Cambridgeshire?”

  He frowned. “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “Then I will tell you. That man is my brother. I am sorry I did not introduce you. That was rude of me.”

  His frown remained. “If he is your brother, why did you not tell me before, when I all but accused you of entertaining a lover?”

  She hesitated. Chewed her lower lip. “My brother is not supposed to be visiting me. Our father has forbidden it.”

  “Why?”

  “He has his reasons; that is all I wish to say. But I do not want word getting back to him that Henry has been to see me.”

  The captain shook his head. “I shall not breathe a word, but I think it devilish unfair of your father.”

  “Do not judge him harshly. It is not his fault. It is mine. Only mine.”

  Captain Bryant opened his mouth as if to ask her to elaborate but apparently thought the better of it. Instead he simply thanked her for telling him, and bid her good-night. Mariah watched him walk away with the dismal realization that he was also saying good-bye.

  Flogging will continue until morale improves.

  – Royal Navy ship notice

  chapter 14

  Matthew helped himself to a solitary breakfast from a sideboard that could easily have satisfied a dozen hungry midshipmen. As he selected sausages, eggs, and muffins, he thought about last night’s encounter with Miss Aubrey. The inhabitant of the gatehouse was certainly intriguing, but something was not right there. He wondered why he thought of her so often. Was he so bored? In truth, he had found his life as a gentleman to be exceedingly tedious so far. And, he admitted to himself, lonely. While not fully staffed, Windrush Court teemed with any number of servants and estate workers. But no friends. At least aboard ship he had enjoyed the companionship of commissioned officers at meals. Here, he dined alone.

  On his way to the stables later that morning, Matthew heard a horse trot up the drive. Through the arched portico, he saw the rider was a fair-haired man in dark blue coat and cocked hat. His heart buoyed.

  William Hart had arrived.

  The young groom hurried out to greet the visitor and take his horse. Matthew winced as his friend gingerly dismounted, his foot catching at the stirrup in an ungainly fashion. The waiting groom took the horse’s reins and offered a steadying hand.

  Matthew hurried down the front stairs and across the drive. “Hart!”

  The fair-haired man limped forward to meet him. “Hello, Bryant.”

  The two men shook hands, then slapped shoulders in a half hug. Apparently self-conscious, Hart pulled away first. He looked up, surveyed the house, and whistled. “Nice quarters, Captain.”

  “Temporary quarters. At least for now. Do come in and I’ll show you around. I am so glad you’ve come, old friend.”

  Matthew gave Hart a tour of the house, careful to moderate his pace, and was relieved not to see Prin-Hallsey about. He offered his guest his choice of several bedchambers, suggesting one at the top of the stairs to limit how far Hart would need to walk several times ea
ch day, and then sent a footman to bring up Hart’s kit. After William was settled, they shared a meal together, exchanging news of men they had served with and each other’s families – Hart had only an invalid mother living, and Matthew knew the two were quite close.

  But what began as a pleasant afternoon seemed to change at some point. Matthew became aware of a mounting tension between himself and his former first lieutenant. The reunion was certainly not proving to be the amiable one he had anticipated.

  “Shall we ride?” Hart offered. “You can show me your vast domain and exercise your new horse in the bargain.”

  “You must be tired from your journey,” Matthew said. “How about a game of chess instead?”

  Hart grimaced. “You despise chess.”

  “I don’t mind. Whatever you want to do.”

  “I want you to stop treating me like an aged invalid.”

  Longing to escape the confines of the house and the clock-ticking tension, Matthew suggested a walk through the grounds and gardens. He added, “If you think you can manage it.”

  “Of course. I have a stout stick and the surgeon’s assurance that exercise will benefit the leg.”

  As they walked, Matthew pointed out the ivy-covered stable block with its unusual central clock tower, the rose garden sporting early yellow roses, the shaped hedges, and reflecting pond. As they circled its placid shore, Matthew bent and selected a flat stone and skipped it across the silvery surface, thinking back fondly to his nighttime stroll there with Miss Aubrey.

  “I want you to stay here with me, William,” he said. “For as long as I have the place.”

  William frowned. “Why?”

  Matthew was taken aback. “Well, there is certainly more room here than one bachelor like me needs. And – ”

  Hart cut him off. “And I am on half pay and crippled in the bargain.”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “And you feel sorry for me.”

  “Of course I am sorry, man. If I could have taken that bullet for you, I would have.”

  Hart’s usually smiling mouth twisted. “Ever the heroic Captain Bryant. Do you really think yourself so much stronger? That you would have overcome such a minor flesh wound and been up dancing the mazurka by nightfall?”