The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 14

  Miss Amy asked abruptly, “You haven’t need of any help around the gatehouse, have you?”

  Mariah hoped Miss Merryweather wasn’t looking for a post in her present state of health. “I . . . What did you have in mind?”

  “You are acquainted with Lizzy Barnes?”

  “Yes, I have met her several times. I understand she has worked for Mrs. Pitt since her sixteenth birthday.”

  Miss Amy nodded. “She has, yes. But, well, you see . . . that is . . .”

  “The Pitt boy has his eyes all over her.” Agnes showed none of her sister’s delicacy. “And where eyes go, hands are sure to follow. And you know what follows after that.”

  Mariah’s cheeks burned.

  Amy whispered, “Perhaps she doesn’t, Aggie.”

  Agnes frowned. “Oh, she knows, and so do you. Just look at her.”

  Mariah shifted, uncomfortable. “And has Lizzy told this young man to leave her alone?”

  “Of course she has,” Agnes said. “Or tried to. But she’s afraid to lose the position, so she’s had to be nice about it. And you know how convincing ‘nice’ refusals are with a young buck like John Pitt. Not at all. But if she had another place, then she could be out from under his eye and his power, see?”

  “I do see,” Mariah said. She considered the situation. If only Mrs. Barnes were on hand to advise her daughter. But Mariah knew Lizzy and George were only able to see their mother every few months or so. “I haven’t much extra money for wages at present, but I shall see what I can do.”

  “You would have to call on Mrs. Pitt first,” Amy apologized. “All employers must gain her approval before engaging one of the residents.”

  “But whatever you do, say nothing against John,” Agnes warned. “He is her angel, and woe to anyone who forgets it.”

  A few moments later, Mariah took her leave. She walked away, her mind filled with images of Lizzy Barnes, barely able to keep John Pitt at bay. And of Miss Amy, barely able to walk and with no family except her sister. So deep in thought was she that Mariah was back in the gatehouse before she realized she had forgotten to deliver the message from “Captain Prince.”

  She went to find Dixon, but the kitchen was empty. Through the window, she saw her in the garden shelling peas, and went outside to help. She sat on the bench and scooped a handful of peapods from the basket. Dixon sent her a grateful smile before returning to her work.

  Mariah split several pods with her thumbnails, releasing the peas with a soft pling, pling into the bowl between them. Suddenly she stilled. Here she and Dixon sat, very much like Amy and Agnes Merryweather. Too much alike. Miss Amy’s words echoed in her mind, “That is what happens to women who don’t marry.” She and Dixon were unmarried. Two peas in a pod. Dixon had no family that Mariah knew of, and she was connected to her own family by only a spindly thread. Would they end as two old women living alone, or worse – if her books did not sell – side by side in the poorhouse?

  “Dixon,” Mariah said abruptly. “If you have opportunity to marry one day, or to take a better post, promise me you won’t forgo that chance on my account.”

  Her friend turned and studied her face. “What is it? Has something happened?”

  “No. It is only that I worry about the future. What might become of us.”

  Unperturbed, Dixon continued to shell peas, long fingers steady, as confident about the future as if each green orb were a priceless pearl.

  “I don’t worry,” she said. “All our days are in God’s hands.”

  Mariah wondered if that were true. Or had she fallen from His hand, and taken Dixon down with her?

  The gardener ambled up the lane as they finished the last of the peas. He carried his latest offering – a basket of scarlet berries.

  Mariah sent Dixon a knowing smile. “What have we here, Mr. Phelps?”

  “Only the best fruit in England, miss.” He lifted his chin with pride. “Fragaria elation. I have kept aside the choicest berries for you ladies.”

  “How kind, Mr. Phelps. Was that not kind, Dixon?”

  Dixon halfheartedly agreed.

  “Miss Dixon adores strawberries,” Mariah said. “Did you know it?”

  Albert Phelps ducked his head, his ruddy cheeks darkening further. “She may have mentioned it.”

  Dixon rose and tossed the spent husks on the compost heap. “We are much obliged to you, Mr. Phelps.”

  He beamed. “They are rinsed and ready. A pleasure not to be missed.”

  As she and Dixon stepped to the door, Mariah noticed the gardener made no move to hand over the basket. The wily man was waiting to be invited inside.

  She obliged him. “Please join us, Mr. Phelps.”

  Sitting at the kitchen table together, the three of them selected and nibbled one berry, then another, Mariah enthusing over the flavor and even Dixon allowing they were sweet indeed.

  The berries reminded Mariah of what the Miss Merryweathers had said, about the boy who had stolen three strawberries. She asked, “Mr. Phelps, how long have you been at Windrush Court?”

  “Oh, more than twenty years now.”

  “So you were here when the gate was locked?”

  He nodded. “And sad I was to see it happen too.”

  “Do you recall the Miss Merryweathers?” Mariah asked. “Two sisters you once showed about your gardens?”

  He screwed up his face in recollection. “Twins, were they?”

  “Exactly so. They remember you as well, and fondly. But they also recall a small boy helping himself to a few strawberries and wonder if that was the reason the gate was locked all those years ago.”

  Mr. Phelps grimaced. “I hope not, miss. I never said a word about it. The master himself complained, said the folks over there had a mind to steal the place blind. Never saw evidence of that myself.” He popped another berry into his mouth. “The old porter who lived in the gatehouse before you, he said he had other ideas about why they locked the gate.”

  “What ideas?” Mariah asked.

  He shrugged. “Lost his post before I could ask him. He and his family were living here one day and gone the next.”

  “How strange,” Mariah murmured.

  Suddenly the strawberries did not taste as sweet.

  A few days later, Mariah sat under a tree with drawing pencil and notebook, trying to outline a story idea while enjoying the fine early June weather. She was soon distracted from her purpose. The tree peonies were in flower, and their fragrance hung sweetly on the air. A titmouse, with blue head and wings, olive-green back, and yellow breast, perched on a flimsy branch, and Mariah began sketching the nimble bird when she should have been writing. Not far away, George Barnes sat leaning against the gate, dangling a string before a pouncing Chaucer, as if he had nothing more important to do either.

  Lizzy strode over from the poorhouse, scowling and shaking a finger at her brother. “George! The schoolmaster is threatening to report you to Mrs. Pitt if you are not in your seat in five minutes.”

  “Dash it,” George muttered, lumbering to his feet and sprinting across the lawn.

  It was the word threatening that reminded her.

  “Lizzy, do you have a minute?”

  The pretty girl looked at her and shrugged, wary. Even so, when Mariah beckoned her over, she came.

  “Is John Pitt pressuring you or threatening you in any way?” she asked, laying aside her pencil and notebook.

  Lizzy’s mouth twisted. “Hardly that. Unless you call courting a threat.”

  Mariah felt her brows rise. “John Pitt means to marry you?”

  The girl looked flustered. “I did not say that, miss. He has made it clear he . . . likes me, is all.”

  “And do you like him?”

  Lizzy met Mariah’s gaze, but hesitated. “No. But please don’t tell anyone I said so.”

  Mariah frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You would, if you lived in the poorhouse. Mrs. Pitt is the queen and John the prince. They make the rules
and hand out the rewards and punishments. There have been extra helpings for George and extra blankets for us both since John took an interest. I won’t take food from my brother’s mouth by outright refusing him. Besides, Mrs. Pitt pays me now, so I’ve a few shillings to put by in hopes of getting out of there someday.”

  Mariah rose and gently but firmly took Lizzy by the shoulders. “Lizzy, look at me. You are worth far more than food and blankets or a few shillings. Don’t value yourself so cheaply.”

  Lizzy said archly, “You think I should ask for more?”

  “That is not what I meant, and you know it. Lizzy, you do realize men will profess love and hint at marriage only to gain their own ends, don’t you? Not all men. But many.”

  Lizzy looked down. “I know. John says he loves me, but I don’t think Mrs. Pitt would ever allow him to marry the likes of me.”

  Mariah hesitated, wanting to tread carefully. “And does Mr. Pitt . . . demonstrate . . . his feelings?”

  Lizzy again ducked her head, but Mariah saw the telltale blush.

  “He tries to kiss me,” Lizzy allowed. “But only when we are alone. In the pantry or storeroom.”

  “Then stay out of the pantry and storeroom.”

  “It isn’t that easy, miss. Like I said – I can’t turn him against me.”

  “But neither need you accept his advances. Lizzy, your virtue, your character, are so valuable. So important. Without her character, a girl has nothing and will never secure marriage with an honorable man.” This Mariah knew all too well. “If word gets around of the two of you alone together behind closed doors the worst will be believed, and what decent man will have you for his wife then?”

  “What decent man will have me now?” Lizzy asked tartly. “Carrying the shame of the poorhouse upon me, not to mention my father’s ruin. I’ve no dowry, no money of my own, and no prospects. Why should I not take the only man I am ever likely to have?”

  Mariah lowered her voice, though no one was near. “And if he uses you and does not marry you? What then?”

  Lizzy’s face clouded. “You don’t understand! It is easy for you to speak of honor and character when you need not wonder where you’ll sleep or where your next meal will come from if the poorhouse turns you out.”

  Mariah slowly shook her head. “I do understand. More than you know. Believe me when I tell you the loss of your character is a terrible price to pay.” She bit her lip to keep from saying too much. Too many people knew already.

  Mariah took a deep breath and continued. “Now. You have admitted you don’t like John Pitt, let alone love him. What happens if you give yourself to him and the next day a man you could love appears at your door?”

  Since meeting Captain Bryant, Mariah could well imagine that particular torment.

  Lizzy laughed dryly, and Mariah cringed to hear the cynical, desolate sound from one so young. “At the poorhouse door? That will be the day. The only men who come there are the ancient apothecary and schoolmaster, the married vicar, and the oily undersheriff. John Pitt looks a prince indeed compared to any of them.”

  Mariah grasped the girl’s hand. “Lizzy, you are only seventeen. Be careful. Wait and choose wisely. For once your choice is made it cannot be made again.”

  Disheartened, Mariah watched Lizzy trudge back toward the poorhouse. She wished she could offer Lizzy a post to get her out from under the Pitts’ influence. But she could not. Not yet. Most of the money she’d received for her first book had gone to Mr. Hammersmith, as well as the greengrocer and the butcher. And she’d yet to receive a farthing for her second.

  Was there nothing she could do? So many girls were in danger of falling victim to manipulative men or their own naïve vanity. Just as Mariah had been. It was too late for her, but there was something she could do. She could warn them. Mariah decided then and there that her next book would be a cautionary tale based on her own experiences. She would change the names and some circumstances. This, coupled with the fact that she was not publishing under her own name, would serve to protect her identity. She did not want readers to reckon her as the injured character, or guess the identity of her heartless betrayer. Or did she? Might he then share in her shame, if only in part? Not likely. She was grateful anew that Mr. Crosby had agreed to publish her as Lady A, even though he would have preferred to use her real name.

  Going inside, she pulled out a fresh sheet of writing paper, opened her inkpot, dipped her quill, and began her third novel.

  The Tale of Lydia Sorrow

  by Lady A

  Lydia was wearing a nightdress of lawn and lace, the one her mother had purchased for the occasion. Her first house party. What high hopes her mother cherished for the event. Several eligible gentlemen from good families would be on hand, and she felt certain Lydia would capture the brightest and best among them. Or at least the wealthiest and best connected.

  But Lydia cherished her own secret hope. She had come to Somerton not with a desire to form some new acquaintance, but with a desire to see the man who had already won her heart. To spend time with him – far more time than she had been allowed before, out from under the watchful eyes of her parents and with only a permissive chaperone between them.

  Lydia had listened politely to her mother’s many entreaties – reminders of decorum and proper behavior – with outward acquiescence. All the while thinking only of him.

  But the man Lydia longed to see was tardy in arriving at Somerton. Just when she began to fear he would not attend the house party at all, she spied him entering the hall after dinner, as the ladies were shepherded into the withdrawing room. Her pulse quickened. She would see him, speak to him, the very next day. She was sure of it. . . .

  Mariah paused and took a deep, shuddering breath. If only she had taken her mother’s entreaties to heart.

  There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away

  nor any coursers like a page of prancing poetry.

  – Emily Dickinson

  chapter 17

  Matthew rose from behind the desk as Miss Aubrey entered the Windrush Court library and stood stiffly before him.

  “You sent for me, Captain?”

  Matthew winced. “How officious that sounds.” When would he learn he no longer commanded a large crew – that he need not delegate such tasks?

  He stepped around the desk. “Miss Aubrey, I beg your pardon. Hammersmith mentioned he was bound for the gatehouse. I only asked him to inquire if you might call here sometime at your convenience.” He pulled a grimace. “Though I suppose on Hammersmith’s tongue it came out rather like a command?”

  She nodded with a telling lift of her brows.

  Matthew noticed a small beauty mark above her left eyebrow, near her temple. He found his gaze lingering on her brow, her cheeks, her lips, before he abruptly shifted his focus. He must stop staring before he gave the wrong impression.

  “I am sorry. If this is not a convenient time, you must feel free to say so.”

  “I am here now.”

  “Very well. I . . . I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Yes?”

  How direct, how steady, were her golden-brown eyes. Disconcertingly so.

  He swallowed. “I have been away at sea the better part of four years. And even before that, I was not very good.”

  She was staring at him, clearly confused. A wariness tightened her jaw and stiffened her feminine mouth.

  Matthew sighed. “Never mind. It was likely too presumptuous.”

  “What, Captain?”

  He licked his dry lips. She already knew he was a novice horseman. Would her opinion be so much lowered by a confession of another wanting skill?

  She must have sensed his self-consciousness, for a mischievous glint lit her brown eyes to amber. “Do you wish me to teach you to ride?”

  He grinned. “No. Not to ride, Miss Aubrey.” He inhaled deeply. “To dance.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “You do not know how?”

  “Oh, I had lesson
s in my academy days and spent a night or two dancing very ill in London. But that is years ago now. I am hosting a house party later this summer and fear I may be called upon to dance. I was hoping you might help Hart and me polish our poor, half-forgotten skills?”

  She smiled. “I shall help you with pleasure, Captain.” Her eagerness dimmed as she glanced from him to the empty room. “But I shall need some assistance.”

  It was arranged for Saturday. Lizzy agreed to come over on her half day as a second woman, though she did not know many dances either. Dixon would accompany them on the pianoforte.

  Captain Bryant and Mr. Hart rose as they entered the salon, each man appearing as nervous as a schoolboy at his first ball.

  “Shall we begin with a country dance?” Mariah suggested. “Perhaps, Pleasures of the Town?”

  “To what tune, Miss Mariah?” Dixon asked, settling herself at the pianoforte.

  Mariah paused. She was an accomplished dancer, but her sister, Julia, was the family’s musician. “I have no idea.”

  Martin walked in behind them and sat in one of the chairs near the pianoforte. Without looking at anyone, he announced, ‘The Fair Maid of the Inn.’ ”

  Mariah glanced at Dixon. Her friend’s stunned expression no doubt mirrored her own.

  Ignoring them, Martin opened a small case and from it extracted and fitted together the pieces of a simple three-holed pipe. With it, he played the opening notes of the jaunty tune with his one hand. Dixon raised her brows high.

  “Mr. Martin,” Mariah said for them both. “We had no idea you were a musician.”

  He shrugged. “A bit. Now, are you going to dance or not?”

  She and Dixon exchanged a look. What other surprises had the odd man in store?

  “Very well. Let’s begin,” Mariah said. “Gentlemen there. Ladies facing them.”

  Hart pushed himself off the wall and limped forward. Captain Bryant stood beside him.

  Mariah painted a circle in the air with her hand. “First, gentlemen ring around the ladies.”

  Captain Bryant gave his friend a sidelong glance, saying dryly, “I am not holding your hand, Hart.”