The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 19

  The joy and sun-filled afternoon faded and with it Mariah’s mood, which darkened as each hour passed with no sign of Lizzy Barnes. Mariah’s insistence on hiring Lizzy had obviously irked the matron, and the thought of an angry Mrs. Pitt discomfited Mariah. Ensconced in her sitting room, she read the outline and sample pages from playwright Simon Wells, then pulled out several sheets of fresh paper to begin drafting the script. But she soon found she could not concentrate. Worries about Lizzy kept distracting her. Exasperated, she pulled out one of her aunt’s journals instead.

  My days at Windrush Court are more peaceful, though certainly more boring now that Frederick Prin-Hallsey has gone to London for the season. This is a quiet place for a girl, with no men to flirt with, save the dashing but cheeky footmen. I did see a man in his late twenties about the place a few times visiting Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, but we were not introduced. There was also an artist, at least I guessed he was, evidenced by the easel and canvas he brought with him, but again Mrs. Prin-Hallsey did not consider a bored young houseguest worthy of introduction.

  My mother’s health is improving and I believe she is beginning to chafe under the kind, though stifling attentions of “dear Jane,” as she calls Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, always ending her friend’s name on a sigh. For, while kindly meant, the lady does overbear one with itineraries of exercise and endless lists of herbals and medicinals one ought to take. I think, increasingly, Mother misses her own home and longs to be mistress of it, and of herself, once more.

  I cannot say I blame her.

  Mariah flipped ahead several pages.

  Mother continues in health now that we are home, though I do not think she will ever be her old robust self again. I rarely think of Windrush Court and Frederick Prin-Hallsey now. I have met another man. A man who considers me worthy of his attention. A kind, warmhearted man who makes me laugh. And even though he is several years older than I am, I believe I shall marry him.

  Mariah realized she was probably reading about her uncle Norris, her mother’s brother.

  Perusing her aunt’s journal reminded Mariah of the new novel she had begun. Eager to return to it, she went into her room and retrieved the few scribbled pages. She reread what she had written so far and then sat back down to continue The Tale of Lydia Sorrow.

  Lydia grasped the door between them like a shield, both thankful for it and wishing it away in the same thought.

  “Lydia . . . You are beautiful,” he breathed.

  Her lips parted to say . . . something. But the words were forgotten before they could fully form, so struck was she by the revelation in his eyes. The deep awe and unexpected . . . Was it loss? Longing?

  “Thunder and turf, Lydia, you will kill me yet.”

  “Shh. If Miss Duckworth should hear or anyone see you . . .”

  “Then let me in. For I am not going away. Not yet. Not until I can speak my heart. I must, Lydia. I must.”

  She hesitated. “Very well. But only for a moment. And keep your voice down, I beg of you.”

  The sweet, heady delight Lydia had felt upon seeing him earlier in the hall, and at the anticipation of being alone with him in the garden, perchance, or dim library, now lurched into something else.

  Fear.

  Mariah laid down her quill. Even reliving that much of the experience was enough to make her worry for Lizzy all over again.

  At painful times, when composition is impossible

  and reading is not enough, grammars and dictionaries

  are excellent for distraction.

  – Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  chapter 22

  Hoping a change of scenery might help, Mariah took her blotter, pages, ink, and quill down to the drawing room the next day. There she worked on the play for several hours, following the prescribed outline of love and deception between a man who must marry for money, and a poor, widowed countess feigning wealth. For some reason the drama left her unmoved. Perhaps it was because, as much as she might empathize with a woman hiding the reality of her situation, Mariah struggled to admire her. The climactic love scene, one of the few the playwright had scratched out, seemed overwrought and disingenuous to her. She had tried several drafts to improve upon it, but still felt it was not right.

  She was standing at the front window, murmuring possible lines of dialogue aloud, when a rap startled her. She turned to find Captain Bryant grinning in the kitchen doorway.

  “Caught you talking to yourself again, Miss Aubrey. I hope you don’t mind; Miss Dixon invited me in.”

  “Of course not.”

  He glanced down, his gaze snagged by something on the floor. Before she could prevent him, he stepped forward and picked up one of the playwright’s pages that had fallen from the table. Glancing at it, his brows rose. “Writing another theatrical, Miss Aubrey?”

  Oh dear. What to say? She decided to be as truthful as possible. “Ah. This time the playwright Simon Wells receives the credit.”

  “And why, may I ask, have you Simon Wells’s script?”

  Mariah swallowed. “Mr. Crosby, whom you met, is a friend of his. I gather he wants a woman’s . . . reaction.” Hoping to divert him, she picked up another page and went on hastily, “His love scene doesn’t strike me as quite right.”

  He nodded, apparently accepting this explanation. “Shall we read it aloud?” he suggested. “See where the false note lies?”

  “Um . . . that is very kind of you. But not necessary.”

  He shrugged. “Might be amusing. I admit I was disappointed not to perform our little drama together at the poorhouse.”

  Nerves fluttering, she admitted, “It would be helpful. If you are certain you do not mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  Palms damp, she handed him the marked-up original in Simon Wells’s hand and kept the version in her own hand for herself.

  Again using the quick memory he had demonstrated during the rehearsal of “The Fox and the Crow,” Captain Bryant spent a few minutes reading the lines, then began abruptly, “ ‘Look at me. Why will you not look at me?’ ”

  Mariah started in surprise. Pulling her eyes from his, she belatedly found her line and cleared her suddenly clogged throat. “ ‘I cannot. Not now. When you know I am not the woman you thought me.’ ”

  “ ‘Not a widowed countess?’ ”

  “ ‘A countess, yes, but a poor one.’ ” Mariah swallowed again, her throat desperately dry. “ ‘And you must marry a rich woman. An heiress to save your family’s estate. Go. She is better suited to you.’ ”

  “ ‘You are correct. She is.’ ” Script between thumb and forefinger, Captain Bryant grasped Mariah’s shoulders with both hands.

  She gasped, stunned by his intensity, never expecting him to so fully act out the script’s stage directions.

  “ ‘Why can I not leave?’ ” he said. “ ‘Why am I drawn back to your door? Your arms?’ ”

  Wistfully, Mariah thought, Would that you were.

  “ ‘I came here to win one woman,’ ” he continued, “ ‘and instead am lost to another.’ ”

  “ ‘Go,’ ” Mariah croaked out. “ ‘Go while you can.’ ”

  “ ‘It is already too late. Only promise me you will never again deceive me.’ ”

  He traced a finger along her cheek and Mariah felt a thrill of pleasure. He is only acting, foolish girl!

  “ ‘I promise,’ ” she murmured, feeling like a hypocrite even as she delivered the line.

  His voice dropped to an intimate whisper, “ ‘Well then, my winsome, ethereal girl, you have but one promise left to make.’ ”

  His straight nose neared her short, upturned one. His sweet breath tickled her cheek, and the scent of shaving soap warmed her senses. He is acting, she reminded herself again.

  The tip of his nose touched hers. He angled his head, lowering yet closer. His mouth dipped nearer, ever nearer to hers. She could not breathe. Could not move. His lips touched hers, and a flood of warmth filled her chest and made pudding of her knees. He pulled
back only slightly and looked into her face. His brown eyes were warm, his pupils large black orbs.

  “There is no kiss,” she said breathlessly, “in the script.”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “There should be.”

  Remembering his intentions toward another, the momentary thrill dissolved. What had he heard? Was he trifling with her because of her reputation?

  His smile faded. He winced and pulled back. “This was a bad idea. I knew it even as I suggested it. Please forgive me, Miss Aubrey.”

  “Of course.” She swallowed, struggling to regain her composure. “So, what do you think of the scene?” Her voice wavered. “Awful, is it not? Melodramatic? Overwrought?”

  “I don’t know. I found it quite . . . effective.” He cleared his throat. “A word of advice? Tell Simon Wells that a real man would not describe a woman as ‘winsome and ethereal.’ Not if he truly admired her, at any rate.”

  Defensiveness flared at this criticism of her work. But she was too shaken to reply.

  Matthew left the gatehouse directly after that, knowing he had better retreat quickly before he lost his head. What had he been thinking? Why had he toyed with her like that? He had already told her of his intentions toward another woman. How little Miss Aubrey must regard him now, for thoughtlessly flirting with her, all the while hoping to marry another. How inconstant he must appear. Was he? All he knew with certainty was that he did not like himself very much at the moment. It was time, past time, to get back on course and begin planning his campaign in earnest.

  His first step would be to contact fellow officer Captain Ned Parker and his highborn and fashionable mother. Mrs. Parker had been the one to suggest a house party in the first place. “Why do you not let me plan the party?” she had said. “Nothing like it to launch you into society – at least into the specific circle you have in mind.”

  It was time to take her up on her offer.

  He wrote to her the very next day, inviting her and her son to visit Windrush Court, or if they preferred, he would travel to London and call upon them there.

  Mrs. Parker accepted his invitation by return post and informed him that she and Ned would arrive the following week.

  In the meantime, Matthew gave the gatehouse a wide berth.

  When the Parkers’ coach-and-four rumbled up the drive, Matthew walked out to meet it. Captain Parker, he saw, rode his own Arabian beside the carriage.

  The groom handed down the elegant middle-aged woman, and Matthew bowed low. “Mrs. Parker, how good of you to come.” He looked up at her dashing, fair-haired son. “Ned old man, enjoying your leave as much as I?”

  “No doubt more.” Parker dismounted with athletic grace.

  Matthew led the way inside to the drawing room, where refreshments awaited. William Hart waited as well.

  Matthew began the introductions. “Mrs. Parker, may I present William Hart, my good friend and former first officer.”

  Hart bowed over her hand. “Mrs. Parker. A pleasure.”

  Matthew turned to Ned. “You remember Lieutenant Hart?”

  Parker nodded and Hart saluted. “How do you do, sir.”

  Matthew smiled once more at Mrs. Parker and gestured her into an armchair upholstered in apple green velvet. “Thank you again for coming.”

  “I am happy to be here,” she said. “Life in town had grown tiresome. I embrace the challenge of hosting a man’s first house party. It will be a resounding success or my name is not Catherine Steadman Parker.”

  “And we gents shall leave you to it, Mamma,” her son said, pouring himself a tall drink. “Give us leave to visit the cellars, and we shall give you leave to arrange the rest.”

  “Naughty boy. You might at least help with the guest list.”

  Keenly interested, Matthew sat in a matching armchair opposite Mrs. Parker. With a dramatic sigh, her son slumped onto the crimson silk settee. Hart joined him.

  “I have a few ideas and have begun a tentative list, of course,” Mrs. Parker said, producing a small pocketbook.

  “Of course,” Ned Parker echoed with an indulgent smirk.

  Mrs. Parker opened the book. “You three, of course. And we must have James Crawford.”

  Matthew frowned, but Mrs. Parker said gently, “I am afraid we simply must, Captain.” Then she went on more brightly, “And perhaps Bartholomew Browne for interest.”

  “The widower poet? What rapture.” Sarcasm curled Ned Parker’s words, and Matthew bit back a smile.

  His mother lifted her chin. “It will not hurt you to keep company with a little culture and accomplishment, Ned.”

  Privately, Matthew was surprised Mrs. Parker wished to invite a fairly recent widower and doubted the man would come.

  Mrs. Parker returned to her notes. “For the ladies, we shall have Isabella Forsythe and Miss Ann Hutchins, a friend of hers. Most eligible.”

  “You can keep throwing her in my path, Mamma,” Ned drawled. “But I shan’t change my mind.”

  Mrs. Parker ignored him. “I still need a few more ladies. There are any number of young debutantes we might consider, Helen and Millicent Mabry, for example. And the ladies must have chaperones.”

  Mrs. Parker regarded Matthew. “Are you acquainted with any other accomplished young ladies we ought to consider?” The truth was Matthew was not. Whom else could he invite to make up the party? And what would his guests do at Windrush Court?

  There would be shooting, which the men would enjoy, and billiards and cards. But how would the women occupy themselves? There would be dinners, of course, and he could ask Hammersmith to arrange for local musicians to play for a ball. But would Isabella and her friend be content with only the society of the Mabry sisters, agreeable girls though they might be? He thought suddenly of Miss Aubrey. She was clearly educated and accomplished. He wondered if she might be persuaded to come over in the evenings. . . .

  In the end, Matthew told Mrs. Parker to invite whomever she thought best, as long as Isabella Forsythe was among the party. Anyone else, he knew, was only there to disguise his real purposes.

  After a visit of a few days to tour the estate, make plans, and take stock of what needed to be done before the house party, the Parkers returned to London. They left Matthew with lists of tasks to be done and supplies to be purchased before their return in August. He grew weary simply reading all that must be accomplished in the next few weeks. But it would be worth it, he assured himself. As long as she was there.

  He saw Miss Aubrey taking a turn around the gardens and went to join her.

  “Captain Bryant.” She hesitated as he approached, her gaze meeting his, then awkwardly flitting away. She faltered, “I have not . . . seen you . . . in some time.”

  Dash it. Was she still feeling embarrassed about that kiss?

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say he had missed her, or to apologize again, but he refrained. “I have been occupied with guests,” he said instead. “A friend from town and his mother.”

  She nodded her understanding, visibly relieved, and they walked on.

  He said, “I believe I mentioned that I am hosting a small house party in August. You would be most welcome to join us for . . . well, whatever you like. Dinner, riding, dancing.”

  “I love to ride, but a house party?” Miss Aubrey shuddered. “No thank you.”

  He was taken aback. “You don’t approve of house parties?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “The young ladies will be chaperoned,” he defended. “And my friend’s mother – a very respectable lady – will act as hostess. It will all be above reproach, Miss Aubrey. Quite innocent.”

  “In my experience, house parties are never completely innocent.”

  He paused to look at her. “Oh?”

  “I do appreciate the invitation, Captain. But parties and large gatherings are not for me. I prize my privacy and prefer to live quietly.”

  Matthew was surprised by her vehement objection. He had not taken her for shy and retiring. “Well
then, you must pardon me, Miss Aubrey. My calls to your door must have been repugnant to you.”

  “Not at all, sir! I was happy to make your acquaintance, and you and Mr. Hart are welcome at any time. But I have no wish to meet with strangers.” A shadow of concern crossed her lovely face. “At least,” she murmured, “I assume they are strangers.”

  They walked on. “As you wish, Miss Aubrey. We shall not burst in upon you. But if you change your mind at any point, you are most welcome.”

  “Thank you, Captain. But I will not change my mind.”

  The next morning, Captain Bryant came trotting up the gatehouse lane on Storm, leading a second horse of dapple grey.

  Mariah met him in the back garden. “Good morning, Captain.”

  He lifted his hat. “Miss Aubrey, I wonder if you might like to go riding with me? You mentioned you enjoyed it.”

  A surge of excitement was followed by myriad reasons why she should or could not. She had not brought her riding habit, had no proper hat, a script she ought to be writing, not to mention questions of propriety.

  But before she could demur, Dixon stepped out of the house and answered for her. “She would be most delighted to accompany you, Captain. Just give us a few minutes, please.”

  Dixon pulled her inside, but Mariah objected sotto voce, “But, Dixon, I can’t. I don’t – ”

  “Of course you do.”

  A “few minutes” became half an hour, after which Mariah descended in her aunt’s old riding habit of voluminous skirt, trim-fitting jacket with velvet collar, plumed hat, and short leather gloves. She felt self-conscious as she stepped outside, but Captain Bryant’s eyes lit appreciatively, putting her at ease.

  The dapple-grey mare was saddled with a quilted black sidesaddle with single pommel. In the absence of a mounting block, Mariah would need the assistance of a groom to mount. In the absence of a groom . . .