The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 21

  Mariah frowned. Was that not the name of the book Mr. Hart had been reading? “I have heard of it.”

  “You are not alone in that, for I have sold out my first printing and have ordered a second.”

  “How nice for you and Mrs. Wimble,” Mariah said dryly. Inwardly she chastised herself for not wishing another female writer every success – even if more success than she herself enjoyed.

  He cocked his head to one side. “Have you given any more thought to using your real name on your second book?”

  “I have not changed my mind, A.K.”

  “Is there some reason for your secrecy – beyond ladylike modesty – that you are not telling me?”

  She stiffened. “I am telling you I wish to remain anonymous.”

  He held her gaze a moment, then looked away. “Well. Only one more piece of business, then.” He looked at his pocket watch and, satisfied, snapped it closed once more. “I have been contacted by another of our authors, a man who sold a good deal of books in his day, and he wishes to meet Lady A. He is involved with a respected periodical and wishes to offer you advice, to publish reviews, perhaps even serialized excerpts of your work. It would be a boon to sales, Miss Aubrey. A veritable boon.”

  Nerves and delight wrestled within her. “Who is it? Would I have heard of him?”

  “That is the rub, Miss Aubrey. This author also published under a pseudonym, a name I think you would recognize. In fact, I have reason to believe you may already know the man.”

  “Know his work, you mean,” Mariah clarified.

  He shook his head. “The man himself.”

  But Mariah was not acquainted with any authors. Unless . . . might Bartholomew Browne write novels as well as poetry? But why would he use his real name for poetry and a pseudonym for novels? Foolish girl, she thought. Did not Walter Scott do that very thing? Mr. Browne did not contribute to any periodical, as far as she knew, but he could easily have begun doing so without her hearing of it. She heard so little of society news these days. Besides, who else could it be? She ticked off the men she knew. Surely not her brother, or Captain Bryant, or Hugh Prin-Hallsey, or Mr. Crosby himself. Might it be the man who broke her heart?

  She asked, “Why would you think I know him?”

  Mr. Crosby shrugged. “Just something he mentioned in his letter. I could be wrong. Does the name Thomas Piper mean anything to you?”

  Mariah vaguely recognized the name. “Did he not write The Golden Prince Adventures?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “My brother read those several years ago.” Mariah paused, frowning. “Thomas Piper wants to meet me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that is not his real name?”

  He shook his head. “I suppose he thinks that if the two of you meet and learn each other’s identities, that will ensure you keep the other’s secret.”

  “I see. . . .” But Mariah was torn. As much as she wanted her books to succeed, she was nervous about opening her sanctuary to this unknown author, having no idea what manner of a man she was inviting into her life.

  “May I think about it?”

  Mr. Crosby rose. “Yes, but do not tarry too long. I shall soon have to decide whether or not I can afford to continue to publish your work. I would hate for you . . . for either of us . . . to miss this opportunity.”

  After Mr. Crosby had taken his leave, Mariah flipped idly through Enchanting Views of Italy. She thought it most unlikely she would ever have the opportunity to travel to Italy or anywhere. She decided she would save this book for a day she felt like traveling to foreign shores in her mind, if not in body. She placed the volume on the sparse bookshelf, then sat down with Mrs. Wimble’s Euphemia’s Return.

  For one strange and sunlit summer, Euphemia Dellwood resided at Primrose Park, a friend’s London estate, with her mother, to be nearer medical care in that prosperous city than she was likely to receive in their small village. Mrs. Dellwood had been offered the use of the estate gatehouse by the dowager Lady Dartmore, whom she had known when both women were young and boarded at Mrs. Rathbone’s Seminary for Girls. The dowager was not in the best of health herself and so felt compassion on Mrs. Dellwood when she learned of her ongoing ailment and the inability of the local apothecary to bring about noticeable improvement. It was at Primrose Park, as her mother’s companion, nurse, and housekeeper, that Euphemia first met the dashing and socially superior Lord Dartmore, the dowager’s son.

  Tall, black-haired, and brooding, Lord Dartmore was a widower with a sickly child. He regarded Euphemia with all the interest a stallion might appropriate a common dewberry blossom. Until the day he was shot through the heart by one of her fatal thorns. . . .

  How strange that the book should be set in a gatehouse. She would never choose a setting so indicative of her own situation for fear someone would find her out.

  Mariah read for some minutes longer, and what began as a mild awareness – as of a gnat buzzing about a lamp, or a distant drumming of rain – grew less amorphous. The vague sense of familiarity, of comfort with the words, became something more specific, and Mariah realized she felt as though she were hearing a tale recounted by a friend. But why should that be? She looked at the copyright date, checking to be sure this was not some new edition of an older book she had read in the past. No, it had been published this very year – new, as Mr. Crosby had said. Why had he given her this particular book? Perhaps because the heroine resided in a gatehouse as Mariah did? Or had he some other reason to believe she would enjoy it? Mariah shook her head. Why did it seem so familiar?

  Matthew wrote to his father, reiterating his invitation to visit Windrush Court. Unless Prin-Hallsey changed his mind about selling the place to him, Matthew had only two months left on his lease, and he truly wished to share this beautiful place with his parents.

  As he wrote, he was reminded of his younger days, when he would write and ask his father to come to some academy event or commissioning. Most often John Bryant sent a terse reply in his stead.

  Matthew posted this letter with all the anticipation of an opening salvo, already dreading return fire.

  He was surprised when Hugh Prin-Hallsey sought him out a few days later. He joined Matthew in the library as Matthew drank his coffee and perused the London papers.

  “I have been giving it a great deal of thought, old boy,” Hugh began. “And I have decided I am willing to part with Windrush Court after all. Assuming you still have a mind to buy the dear place?”

  Matthew felt a rush of satisfaction at his words. When Isabella arrived next week, he could tell her he was the owner of Windrush Court, her future home, if only she would consent to be his wife. But this happy thought was followed immediately by a thread of suspicion.

  “Why the sudden change of heart?” he asked. He considered the notion that he had proved himself worthy of the grand estate in Hugh Prin-Hallsey’s eyes, but somehow he doubted it.

  When Hugh hesitated, Matthew added, “Has it something to do with whatever you failed to discover in the gatehouse?”

  “Failed to discover . . . ?” Hugh screwed up his face in thought. “No, not in the least.”

  Matthew regarded the man, trying to gauge his sincerity. If he could buy Windrush Court, did the man’s reasons for selling matter? Unless . . . had the man recently discovered some structural defect Matthew was unaware of ? He would consult Hammersmith and Jack Strong before he decided.

  “Name your terms,” Matthew said. “And I shall consider it.”

  Matthew and William Hart were paying a call on Miss Aubrey later that afternoon when Mr. Martin thundered down the stairs into the drawing room. Miss Aubrey looked up in some surprise, clearly taken aback to see Martin coming down from abovestairs. As far as Matthew knew, the odd man rarely ventured beyond the gatehouse kitchen.

  “Captain Bryant. Mr. Hart. Glad you are here. Are you on board?”

  “On board?” Matthew asked.

  “The plan. The mission. I mean to rescue Captai
n Prince tonight. Are you in?”

  “Rescue?” Matthew felt his brow furrow. “Is he in peril?”

  Incredulous, Martin sputtered, “Is he in – ?” He ran a hand over his balding head. “How would you like to be locked up way up there in that poorhouse, all alone?”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Well then?”

  Matthew asked, “How do I know he isn’t just some crazy old man who has been locked up for his own good?”

  “Come with me.” Martin hurried back up the stairs.

  Matthew glanced at Miss Aubrey for approval, saw her nod, and then followed reluctantly behind, Hart at his heels.

  At the window in the small sitting room, Martin nodded toward the poorhouse roof. “That’s how.”

  When he squinted to see clearly, Martin handed him his glass.

  Matthew focused the instrument and saw the perfectly executed signal flags hoisted on a line strung from a chimney. These were no layman’s signals, as that white surrender flag might have been. First came a blue-white-blue striped flag over a solid red flag – I’ve run aground.

  The distant man followed this with a numerical signal from the closely guarded Admiralty Book. Yellow over red over yellow. One. Diagonal from lower hoist to upper fly, white over blue. Six. Sixteen – Engage the enemy more closely.

  “Well?” Martin asked.

  Matthew lowered the glass and handed it to Hart. “I’m in.”

  When they described their plan to Miss Aubrey, her charming mouth opened in stunned alarm. “We are not at war with the poorhouse.”

  “Miss Aubrey, you know that I am a peace-loving man,” Martin said. “But I cannot sit by while the captain is locked away against his will. I owe him too much.”

  “Could we not civilly go to Mrs. Pitt and demand, civilly, to see him? To ascertain his true situation and wishes? For all we know he likes haunting the rooftop.”

  Matthew crossed his arms. “Then why all the signaling?”

  “Attention? Look, he managed to come down for the theatrical, so could he not manage to escape if he really wanted to?”

  Martin shook his head. “I don’t know. All I know is I shall not rest until I speak to him myself and do whatever I can to help him.”

  In her distress, Miss Aubrey put her hands on her hips, causing her billowy dress to cling to her curves. “Captain Bryant, may I remind you that the undersheriff and his bailiff have jurisdiction in this matter? I would hate to see you locked away in the Stow jail.”

  “I gave my word to Mr. Martin that I would help him. Hart has also agreed.”

  William Hart nodded eagerly. “Truth is, Miss Aubrey, we are bored to tears. If we don’t see some action soon, there is no accounting for our behavior.”

  She turned those liquid amber eyes on first Hart, then him. “Promise me you won’t shoot anybody. Or run anybody through, or whatever it is you do with those swords.”

  “Oh, very well,” Hart said with shuddering sarcasm.

  But Matthew found no humor in the comment. He did not wish to think of all the bloodshed he had been responsible for in the commission of his duty.

  The sailors hurled grappling hooks across to

  the Serapis, catching them in the rigging

  and hooking on to the bulwarks.

  – Evan Thomas, John Paul Jones

  chapter 25

  When night fell, the men reconvened at the gatehouse, where young George Barnes joined them. There, they took turns blackening their faces with a burnt cork. Watching him, Miss Aubrey shook her head. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, actually.” Matthew grinned and tapped the tip of her nose with the blackened cork. “I didn’t realize the life of a gentleman would be so mind-numbingly boring.”

  She looked adorable with a spotted nose. “Has it all been boring?” she asked.

  He tucked his chin in mock disapproval. Knew she was fishing for a compliment. “Not all, minx, as well you know.”

  The three of them, Martin, Hart, and Matthew, followed George, their self-appointed guide, into the darkness toward the poorhouse. Hart stayed near George, and Matthew overheard him whispering to the boy, asking after his sister. Martin carried a long coil of rope and something under his arm. But they carried no lamp, or fatal weapon either. Matthew hoped and prayed Mrs. Pitt and her son did not sleep with guns at the ready.

  When they reached the side of the poorhouse, George pointed up to the top floor. “See that open window? That’s his room there.”

  From under his arm, Martin drew forth an iron treble hook.

  Matthew felt his brows rise. “A grappling hook, Mr. Martin?”

  “Oh, I have quite a collection of weapons and navy paraphernalia. Never imagined this old thing would be put back into service.”

  Matthew was relieved that they would not have to break in to see the man. Hart, always better with knots than Matthew, secured the rope to the grappling hook.

  Martin handed him the heavy coil of rope. “Captain Bryant, might you do the honors?”

  Matthew supposed he was the most able-bodied among them, and hoped he had the strength for the task. He laid the coil on the ground beside him and lifted a loop of slack in his left hand, while in his right he began swinging the heavy hook like a pendulum, gaining momentum. He and his crew had done the like innumerable times in preparation for boarding enemy ships, but that distance had been horizontal versus the more difficult vertical throw required now. He took one last swing, and released the hook with a heave and a grunt. It flew true and landed on the roof with a clank. Matthew winced, waiting for lights to be lit or dogs to bark, or a head to appear in the open window. But after the echo died away, all was silent.

  “Well done,” Hart breathed.

  Matthew tested the hold of the hook. Finding it anchored, he took a deep breath and lifted his foot against the rough stone. Using the rope, he climbed laboriously up the side of the building.

  A few months of easy living had already softened him. Matthew was sweating profusely, and his arms and legs shook by the time he reached the third row of windows. He gained footing on the ledge and paused at the open window, trying to catch his breath. He could see almost nothing inside the room, save for the glow of embers in a hearth. He was surprised the old man had slept through the clang of the hook landing on the roof above his room. Was he ill? Or not in the room at all? Perhaps he had escaped on his own without their help.

  The window casement was thrust straight out, and he was relieved that, although he was clearly no longer in peak condition, at least he was still trim enough to slide through the opening.

  He landed in the room with a thud, but before he could gain his bearings, he was knocked off his feet in a forceful whoosh and crashed to the floor. For a dazed moment, he thought he had been felled by “wind of ball,” the passing air from cannon shot that could knock a man senseless. But this was no mere wind that pinned him to the ground. This wind had flesh and sinew and a fierce grip around his throat.

  “Thought I wouldn’t hear your grappling hook catching on the rigging and hooking on the bulwarks, but I did,” came a gruff whisper from above him. “Try to board my ship, will you? Who are you? A Frenchman, I suppose?”

  Matthew fought to breathe, pushing at the hands that held him. His attacker loosened his grip enough for Matthew to say, “No, sir. Captain Bryant of the Royal Navy, lately of the Frigate Sparta.”

  “What’s this?” His captor released his hold, stood, and moved to the fire. A moment later a stick of tinder had been kindled in the embers and a candle lamp sparked to life.

  “You saw my signal?” the man asked.

  “We did, sir.” Matthew rubbed his smarting throat. “We are not a boarding party, sir. Rather, an escape party, come to free you, if you wish it.”

  The man lifted the candle lamp higher and peered into Matthew’s face. “Do I not look free? When was a captain’s cabin ever so fine?” He swung his lamp in an arc around the room – and indeed the
upholstered settee and chair, table, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were as fine as any gentleman’s library.

  “And how do you attain the roof from here, sir?” Matthew asked.

  “The name is Captain Prince,” the old man said sternly. “And I would appreciate if you would remember that.”

  “Yes, sir – that is, Captain.”

  The man’s expression softened and he lifted the candle lamp toward one corner of the ceiling, where a rickety ladder led to a trapdoor. “There’s the hatchway there. I come and go as I please. Though John locked it for a time after my, em, guest appearance downstairs. Only recently managed to persuade him to unlock it again. He reinforced the door lock as well.”

  So much for walking out of here, Matthew thought on a sigh. “Would you like to climb down with me, Captain? That is, if you are able?”

  “Of course I am able. I am not an invalid.”

  Perhaps not, but the man was surely nearly seventy. “Mr. Martin awaits below, Captain.”

  “My former steward? I thought it was him that night. I am sorry I confused him with a kidnapper.”

  Matthew hesitated. “An . . . honest mistake.”

  The man shrugged on his coat and stepped toward the window.

  “Um . . .” Matthew wondered if he should mention it. “Shoes, Captain?”

  The man frowned. “Can’t abide the things. Now, let us be off.”

  Recalling how the man had leapt over the stair railing the night of the theatrical, Matthew should not have been surprised at the ease and agility with which he descended the side of the poorhouse, but he was. Matthew followed after, less gracefully. But he told himself that he’d already had to scale the wall, which was the more difficult feat.

  The man leapt to the ground and landed before Martin. Martin knuckled his hat brim. “Captain Prince.”