The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  “May I?” Captain Bryant asked as she approached. He bent and cupped his hands, offering her a leg up. She hesitated, eyeing his pristine gloves.

  “Go on, I don’t mind. My valet needs something to keep him occupied. Meticulous fool spent twenty minutes tying this dandified cravat.”

  “It looks well on you. You . . . look well,” she faltered. He did indeed. In fact, he looked quite handsome in his cutaway riding coat and black boots with contrasting tan cuffs.

  Placing her foot into his interlaced hands, she allowed him to assist her up onto the horse. Settling onto the sidesaddle, she hooked her right knee over the pommel and rested her calf behind the horse’s shoulders. She felt Captain Bryant’s gloved hands gently guide her slippered left foot into the single stirrup. Warm pleasure threaded up her leg at his touch, innocent and pragmatic though it was. She smoothed her long skirt down the left side of the horse, making sure her legs were fully covered. Then she took up the reins.

  Captain Bryant remounted Storm, who shied and danced but submitted to his firm, gentle commands. He had come a long way as a horseman since the night they first met.

  Mariah could not wait. Eager as she was to ride again after so long, she clicked the horse forward into a walk. She wondered if anyone rode her horse, Lady, at Attwood Park. Did they leave it to the groom to exercise Mariah’s bay mare? Or had they sold her, that reminder of their daughter gone astray? Tears pricked her eyes at the thought, but she blinked them away, determined to enjoy this ride, this day, and this companion.

  Captain Bryant was beside her in a moment. Together they rode through the grounds at a stately walk, then at a modest trot out the main gate and along the turnpike as Mariah found her seat and rhythm. Taking the lead, Captain Bryant turned his horse down a rural lane. Here they urged the horses into a smooth canter. Mariah’s mood soared. Ah, the freedom of the rolling gait, the wind teasing the hair at her temples, strands coming free and dancing in the air and catching at the corners of her mouth. . . .

  Her grinning mouth.

  Captain Bryant’s eyes gleamed. “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Aubrey?”

  She smiled. “You know I am.”

  Mariah knew it was foolish to feel this little flutter about Captain Bryant. How futile to open her heart to a man bent on pursuing another. And if he showed romantic interest in her, would she not then be obligated to reveal her past? How she hated the thought of watching the admiration fade from his shining brown eyes. It was better this way, she told herself. Since he had made his intentions toward another woman so clear, she needed not say a word.

  They rode through a gently rolling meadow, and then along a narrow stream, whirring and whispering over rocks and around bends, sparkling in the sunlight and leading them farther and farther from Windrush Court. Mariah had not ventured this far from the gatehouse since arriving last autumn. It felt good to lengthen her tether. To fill her lungs and savor new sights and sounds.

  At a spot where the embankment flattened, they allowed the horses to pause and drink. Mariah held Captain Bryant’s gaze, hoping her eyes expressed the depth of gratitude and warmth she felt, feelings she thought wiser not to put into words. She said only, “Thank you so much for today, Captain. I cannot remember when I have enjoyed myself more.”

  “Then we shall have to ride again.”

  But with the house party looming near, Mariah had the foreboding sense that this ride might very well be their first and last.

  Alas! A woman that attempts the pen

  Such an intruder on the rights of men,

  Such a presumptuous Creature is esteem’d

  The fault can by no virtue be redeem’d.

  – Anne Finch, Countess of Winchelsea, 1713

  chapter 23

  Mariah was sitting on the garden bench a few days later when Hugh Prin-Hallsey sauntered up the lane. She had not laid eyes on him since she had seen him talking to Mr. Crosby on the road a fortnight before and had assumed he had gone back to London. What had he returned for this time?

  She rose. “Mr. Prin-Hallsey, hello.”

  “Please. Call me Hugh. Are we not practically cousins?” He smiled expectantly, but she only stared at him, wary.

  “Will you not invite me in?”

  “Oh. Of course.” She stepped to the back door, opened it, and gestured him inside. “Please.”

  Feeling the kitchen too humble for such an august guest, she led Hugh into the drawing room. Chagrined to find a copy of her novel on the table, she quickly stacked other books atop it, preparing to stash it from view. But he moved more quickly than she.

  “Ah . . . Lady A’s novel. Did you enjoy it?”

  “I . . . did, yes.”

  “They were full of it at the Whites. But between you and me, I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that Lady A is really no lady at all.”

  Had he somehow guessed? Pinpricks of shame and dread riddled her body. “What makes you say that?”

  He shrugged. “I imagine Lady A is really a Mister A in disguise. All the best writers are men.”

  Relieved to have misunderstood, she said faintly, “Are they?”

  “I think so.” He glanced around the room. “But I have not come to talk about books, Mariah. May I call you Mariah?”

  “I . . . suppose so.”

  “You see, I have exhausted my search of the house, and Bryant is quite vexed with all my comings and goings. So, I think, I believe, I hope, that what I am seeking is here in the gatehouse. Has been here all along.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “I know I called once before and you did not recall any particular item your aunt might have left here. But you haven’t the devious mind of your aunt. Nor of Hugh Prin-Hallsey. I think if I might look about myself I am more likely to find what I am searching for.”

  He regarded her, eyebrows high, smile nearly convincing. Still she hesitated.

  He leaned toward her. “You haven’t anything to hide, I trust.”

  She clenched one hand in a tight fist, fingernails biting into her flesh. “Not specifically, but as a gentlewoman, I have natural reservations about a man pawing through my private things.”

  His dark eyes glittered. “That’s right. You are a woman with a secretive and colorful past.”

  She felt her cheeks burn. “Perhaps you had better leave, Mr. Prin-Hallsey.”

  He studied her flushing countenance with apparent pleasure. “In good time, Mariah. After all, this gatehouse is my property. Is it not?”

  He was watching her carefully, and Mariah wondered if he expected an answer to his rhetorical question.

  He surveyed the room, then said, “I believe a top-to-bottom search is in order – starting with the attic in the turret.”

  Mariah guessed that the young footman had finally confessed to carrying a chest up to the gatehouse attic last fall. She wondered if he had been forced or bribed to divulge Mrs. Prin-Hallsey’s secret mission.

  Hugh strode toward the stairs, not awaiting her reply.

  Mariah swung around with a pleading look to Dixon. A look that said, What do we do now? How can we stop him?

  They heard his Hessians echoing across the floor above them and then creaking up the attic stairs.

  Her love letters! Early drafts of her novels. The promise she made to her aunt . . . These thoughts stirred a surge of panic in her bosom. Her bosom . . . where the key still lay secure. Would he smash open the chest?

  A few minutes later, she had her answer. Hugh clomped back down the stairs, looking piqued. With apparent effort, he restrained his frustration and demanded calmly, “I require two things from you, madam. A candle. And a key.”

  Glancing through the gatehouse windows to discover if Miss Aubrey was within, Matthew was astounded to see Hugh Prin-Hallsey looming ominously over her. He hurriedly let himself inside in time to hear the man say, “Shall you give me the key, or shall I wrench it from your neck?”

  “What is going on here?” Matthew demanded.

  Both head
s snapped his way.

  “Are you all right, Miss Aubrey?”

  “I . . .”

  “Miss Aubrey is perfectly well,” Prin-Hallsey said. “Merely confused. She has something of mine and refuses to relinquish it.”

  Miss Aubrey lifted her chin. “I have nothing of yours, sir.”

  “How do you know? Have you looked inside the chest?”

  “Have you?”

  “An omission I am seeking to correct this very moment.”

  Miss Aubrey addressed her next words to Matthew. “Captain, my aunt, Mrs. Prin-Hallsey” – Hugh flinched and his jaw tightened, but Miss Aubrey continued undeterred – “gave me only a few personal mementos. Nothing of value and nothing that belongs to Mr. Prin-Hallsey.”

  “Then why not show me and prove it?” Hugh said.

  “I do not like the thought of you going through Mrs. . . . my aunt’s private things, nor my own.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?” Matthew asked.

  “I don’t exactly know. But I shall know it when I see it.”

  “Oh, very well!” Miss Aubrey suddenly relented, her face a grimace of frustration and something else Matthew could not identify. She handed Prin-Hallsey a stout old candle lamp. Then she grasped the chain around her neck and fished the key from the hollow between her breasts. Watching the key slide across her skin, Matthew forced himself to avert his gaze. She did not hand over the key, but gestured for Hugh to lead the way upstairs.

  Holding the lamp, Hugh Prin-Hallsey preceded them up to the first floor and then up the narrow stairway to the turret attic.

  Once at its door, Hugh gestured Mariah in before him and followed her inside. Matthew stayed in the doorway, the small space already crowded with the two of them and an assortment of trunks. Mariah quickly bent before an ornate chest, unlocked it, and stepped back.

  Hugh handed her the candle lamp. Then he fell upon the chest like a starving man at a banquet, digging in with both hands. His frantic motions soon slowed, and he turned an angry profile toward Mariah.

  “There is almost nothing here.” He lifted a fine old shawl with careless disdain. “You cannot expect me to believe she delivered this chest to your care with only this piece of nothing, two miniature portraits, and a few Edgeworth novels.”

  Mariah said, “There were a few other articles of clothing – gloves, for example. But I have since incorporated them into my own wardrobe. You may see them if you like.”

  “No letters? No . . . journals?”

  Mariah stared at him. Allowed the question to resonate through the stifling silence. “And if there were, how should that concern you? What right have you to them?”

  With a quick glance at Matthew, Hugh hedged, “Well, if there were papers dealing with the estate, or with family . . . concerns.”

  “I promise you there were no legal documents. No deeds, no bank notes or stocks, no gems, or gold or silver either.”

  Matthew wondered if Mariah had already removed whatever it was Hugh was looking for. Was that why she had initially resisted, guessing Hugh would suspect that very thing had she given in too easily?

  Hugh studied her, as if testing her sincerity, or as if the words were slow to penetrate. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled heavily. Then, with another glance at Matthew, he rose and gestured for Mariah to lead the way back down.

  But on the next floor, Miss Dixon called to them from the sitting room, where she stood at the window. “That crazy old captain is up on the roof again.”

  Miss Aubrey hurried over and, curious, the two men glanced at each other then crossed to the window as well. Mariah picked up Martin’s glass and took a look, shaking her head. Then she handed the glass to Hugh, beside her.

  “Spying on our neighbors? How diverting.” Hugh peered through the glass, but his amused smirk instantly fell away. “Thunder and turf . . .”

  “What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “Do you know him?”

  Hugh hesitated, then handed the glass back. “No. How should I know him?”

  “But . . . from your reaction, I thought – ”

  “No. I was merely shocked. Anyone would be, seeing that lunatic waving his arms from the ramparts.”

  Matthew took his turn with the glass and saw the old man who had disrupted their theatrical. “He appears to be waving a white flag.” He lowered the glass and looked at her. “He is surrendering to you, Miss Aubrey. Any idea why?”

  Mariah sat at the writing table and tried in vain to put the events of the day from her mind. How relieved she had been when Captain Bryant intervened during Hugh’s manic visit. Considering she had already removed her aunt’s journals, she had thought it wise to put up a show of resistance before unlocking the chest. She must have put her childhood playacting experience to good use, for it seemed to have some effect. Though Mariah was convinced that had Captain Bryant not been on hand, even her theatrics would not have kept Hugh from tearing through the entire gatehouse in his search. Was he so afraid of what Francesca’s journals might reveal about the family? Or did he truly believe her aunt had hidden some valuable treasure here in the gatehouse?

  At all events, she was happy Hugh was gone, and the gatehouse was peaceful once more.

  Taking advantage of the quiet, she dipped her quill and continued The Tale of Lydia Sorrow.

  Was he about to ask for her hand, Lydia wondered, as he had all but done several times before? Would he speak those longed-for words in that melodic, mesmerizing voice of his? Was he then going to kiss her with all the banked passion she saw in his eyes?

  But with the excitement came an icy terror of being found out. Of being caught with him in her bedchamber. How quickly they would be forced to marry if they were! But surely even that would not be the end of the world, would it? Yes, it would be devastating for her parents to learn of it. And her character would be tainted, but only until he redeemed it by marrying her. Which he meant to do. Of that she had no doubt. But what was this talk of departing? He had just returned from several months on the continent.

  He took her hands in his. “My dear, how I have longed to see you again. How I missed you, ached for you while I was away.”

  “And I you.” By the candlelight which danced with the flickering firelight, she eagerly surveyed his countenance, noticing he was already in need of a shave.

  He squeezed her hands almost painfully tight. “I thought I could take my time. Court you. But my father insists. He wants to see me married. Settled.”

  She was ready to marry him at a moment’s notice, or at least as soon as the banns might be read. “I don’t mind,” Lydia said.

  He looked up at her, apparently taken aback.

  His father was unwell, she knew. He would not defy him at such a time.

  Emboldened by the look of timidity, of near-defeat in his big, expressive eyes, she whispered, “I am ready.”

  She leaned forward, intending to place a comforting kiss upon his cheek, but he mistook her intention. Pulling her into his arms, he met her lips with his own and kissed her deeply.

  Abruptly, he drew away. “Forgive me. I am the vilest creature I know, but I could not help myself.”

  She was surprised by the ferocity of his self-rebuke. While a gentleman, he was not often severe with himself. She longed to kiss the bleak expression from his face. Instead, she asked, “What is it? What is the matter?”

  He shook his head, lips pressed in a grim line.

  “It is all right,” she murmured. “You know I would marry you tomorrow.”

  “I know,” he whispered. Taking her hand, he turned and led her to the bed.

  Mariah set down her quill and sighed. How wearying, how painful it was to remember that night.

  She set aside the novel and instead brought out the script for Simon Wells, which she should have been working on in any case. But for a moment she just sat there, thinking of Captain Bryant. She could not work on the play without recalling the day he had read from the script . . . and kissed her.
/>   Mariah sighed. Forcing her mind back to her task, she dipped her quill once more. She needed to finish the play, and she needed to finish it soon, for Mr. Crosby was calling in three days’ time to pick up the script. He had written to let her know when to expect him. He had also written to say that he wished to address a few other matters of business with her – though he did not specify what these were. She hoped it wasn’t more bad news . . . or reviews.

  Jane Austen hid the fact that she was a writer

  from the household help and from the public –

  all of her books were published anonymously

  during her lifetime.

  – Rebecca Dickson, Jane Austen, An Illustrated Treasury

  chapter 24

  Three days later, at precisely the appointed hour, A. K. Crosby walked across the gatehouse lawn, tucking his pocket watch away with one hand, while carrying a parcel under his other arm.

  Mariah met him at the door. “More frightful reviews?”

  He shook his head. “Not this time.”

  Once they were seated, teacups in hand, Mariah asked, “How is the first book selling?”

  “Fair, I would say.” He took a sip of tea. “Not as well as I should like.”

  To change the uncomfortable topic, Mariah handed him the script. He briefly perused it, then pulled a bank note from his pocket. “Excellent. Here is half. I shall send the rest once Mr. Wells approves the script.”

  Setting down his teacup, he lifted the parcel and handed it to her. “I am making you a small gift. Now, you need not hesitate to accept. It is only two other books I have had the privilege of publishing. One is a book of travel writing – quite popular these days.”

  Mariah opened the parcel and read the inscribed title. “Enchanting Views of Italy by Mrs. Elizabeth Rushford. Is that her real name?”

  “It is. I have met both Mrs. and Mr. Rushford. She travels with him and writes while he conducts his merchant business. But the second one, a novel, I am especially keen for you to read. It is Euphemia’s Return, by our rising new star, Mrs. Wimble.”