The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 23

  She stared at him, dreadful realization pricking through her. “How do you know?”

  He leaned near, face bright with youthful pleasure. “Because I am that man.”

  Awash with incredulity, Mariah felt her mouth fall ajar. “You are Mrs. Wimble? I don’t believe it.”

  His pleasure dimmed. “And why not?”

  She shook her head, her mind refusing to accept that what she had read – the feminine thoughts and feelings – had been conjured by this man.

  But had they not seemed familiar? And now that she thought about it, had she not seen Hugh talking to Mr. Crosby that day?

  Fellow traveler indeed!

  After a quarter of an hour of gloating, Hugh apparently realized Mariah was not going to offer him anything to eat and finally took his leave.

  When he had, Mariah went upstairs to her bedchamber and pulled her aunt’s journals from her dressing chest. She felt compelled to peruse the volumes in which Hugh was often mentioned, to see if there was any hint about his writing stories as a younger man.

  I learned that Frederick Prin-Hallsey married the wealthy, well-connected girl as his family had hoped. Her name was Honora Whitmore, a descendant of the local gentry from whom the village long ago took its name. I also learned that the couple had one son, which is all I managed to bear for Mr. Norris. In a day where families of eight, ten, or twelve children are common, Providence had given us each only one. Alas, Providence also saw fit to take mine from me, while their son still lives.

  I never met Honora Prin-Hallsey. I heard a great deal about her from Frederick, and attempted to piece together an accurate description of her character from the varying accounts of husband, son, neighbor, and servant. Whatever Honora had been, Frederick apparently thought me an improvement as a wife, which may not speak very highly for her demeanor or warmth. Of course, in Hugh’s eyes, I was nothing to her and never would be. Nothing I did or didn’t do found favor in his eyes.

  I was surprised when I learned Honora had been responsible for the donation of funds and lands for the poorhouse adjacent to the estate. Nothing in her son’s behavior nor her husband’s devotion led me to credit her with Christian charity. And this knowledge of her good deed caused me to regret my uncharitable thoughts.

  How sad, Mariah thought, that such a generous and charitable woman had ended up with a son like Hugh.

  Reading about the poorhouse brought Lizzy Barnes to mind, and Mariah wondered yet again if Mrs. Pitt had even told the girl about Mariah’s offer of a post. How she wished she could pluck Lizzy from the institution – and from John Pitt’s reach.

  Coming to the end of that journal, Mariah reached down and extracted a second volume from nearer the bottom of the stack, to see if it was more of the same. She opened it and began reading.

  Lord Masterly’s eyes bore into Jemima’s limpid green gaze. His hand reached across the gravestone to grasp hers.

  “I knew you would return to me. I have cast a spell upon you. One you could no more resist than the tide can resist licking the waiting shore.”

  “No, my lord, you are wrong. I am only here to find my grandfather’s map, and with it your ruin.”

  What in the world? Mariah flipped a few more pages, surprised and somehow amused to see pages and pages of some gothic novel written in her aunt’s loopy hand.

  She smiled.

  What had Aunt Fran said? “You and I have more in common than you might guess.”

  Mariah received another letter from Mr. Crosby – this one reiterating author Thomas Piper’s wish to meet her and to publish reviews or excerpts of her next novel in a leading periodical.

  Why did the man wish to help her? Or did he? What if he had some other motive, one he conveniently neglected to mention to a young and perhaps gullible A. K. Crosby Junior? Her encounters with the man who betrayed her, and even with devious Hugh Prin-Hallsey, had left her skittish and unable to trust her instincts – or the assurances of others.

  Mr. Crosby had intimated that her first book was not selling as well as he wished, and that he planned a smaller printing on the second. He said reviews by Thomas Piper might help her career, might help him justify publishing a third Lady A novel. But was success worth the risk of giving up her anonymity, of her family discovering her work, and the public discovering Lady A was no lady at all?

  Mr. Crosby said she might know the man. If so, could the secret author be Hugh Prin-Hallsey himself ? He had admitted to one pseudonym already. But could – would – Hugh help her? She doubted it was worth the risk of finding out.

  Mr. Crosby ended his letter by saying he would write again in a week’s time with specifics of when and where the proposed meeting would take place. She would need to decide by then.

  Knowing she thought more clearly while she walked, Mariah left the gatehouse, intending to take a brisk stroll around the grounds.

  Martin, sitting on the garden bench with pipe and newspaper, lifted a hook in casual greeting.

  “Hello, Martin.”

  “Miss.” He turned a page of his newspaper. “Napoleon has finally sailed for his long-anticipated exile on the island of Elba.”

  “That is good news. Why don’t you seem happy about it?”

  “Elba is not far enough away, to my way of thinking.”

  She stepped nearer, glancing idly at a second periodical on the bench beside him. “What is this?”

  He lifted his odd half-shrug. “Gentleman’s Magazine. Mrs. Strong is good enough to save Master Hugh’s copies for me once he is through with them.”

  Surprised, Mariah shook her head. “First the newspapers and now magazines as well. If you tell me you read novels, I shall faint dead away.”

  He turned another page. “Well, you won’t find me reading epic poems. Cannot abide the longwinded things.”

  “I shall tell Mr. Scott you said so.”

  He looked up quickly.

  “I am only teasing, Martin. How should I know the man?”

  “I don’t either. Still wouldn’t want to offend him.” He picked up the Gentleman’s Magazine and opened it to an earmarked page. “There is something in here that might interest you. A review on that novel you’ve been reading. Euphemia’s Return?”

  “More glowing praise, I suppose?”

  “Rather, yes. It has less glowing things to say about A Winter in Bath, but I don’t suppose you would care to hear it?”

  “No, Martin. I would not.”

  He nodded. “If you are headed up to the great house, take heed. Last I heard, Captain Bryant and some other fellow were shooting archery blindfolded.”

  Oh dear.

  Mariah walked gingerly down the gatehouse lane, careful to look in all directions as she neared the new archery range. She saw no one about.

  Continuing on, she spied Mr. Hart sitting alone under a tree, portable writing desk on his lap and quill in hand. “Mr. Hart.”

  Startled, he looked up, then quickly slid the paper beneath a blank sheet, his eyes flitting, his expression awkward. It was something she might have done. Could it be . . . ? Sweet Mr. Hart, the secret novelist?

  “May I ask what you are doing, Mr. Hart?”

  “Oh, uh . . . nothing really.”

  Why did he appear so sheepish? So guilty? She raised her brows in expectation.

  He said, “I was only writing a letter.”

  “It must be quite a letter to cause you to blush so.”

  He ducked his head. “I am afraid you have caught me out, Miss Aubrey.” He attempted a chuckle, but it came out as a pitiful huh.

  She waited.

  “You will think me very foolish. As I no doubt am.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “It is all a lot of nonsense. A man like me, trying to be . . . eloquent. Captain Bryant is so much better with words than I am.”

  “Is he?” Surely not Captain Bryant, she thought. He would have told her. But then again, she had not told him.

  Hart confessed, “I was trying to write a love le
tter, you see, with a bit of verse. But I have not a poetical turn of mind. I don’t suppose you would take pity on a poor besotted creature?”

  Not a novel. A letter. She thought of what Mr. Crosby had said, about female authors earning extra money by writing love letters and poems for gentlemen. Still the notion struck her as wrong.

  “May I ask whom the letter is for?”

  He met her eyes. “Miss Barnes. I thought you would have guessed.”

  “I did. But I am glad to hear I was right.”

  “Are you?”

  She nodded. “But a girl like Lizzy does not need fancy words or poetry written by another. Write what is in your heart.” She reached over and briefly touched his shoulder. “She will like that, I think.”

  Mr. Hart squinted off into the distance. “What is in my heart is neither poetic nor, I daresay, likely to sweep a girl off her feet. I . . . I want her to meet my mother.”

  Mariah knew Mr. Hart’s invalid mother lived with her sister in a small pair of rooms on the coast. And that mother and son were close.

  “Tell me, Miss Aubrey. Do you judge such a suggestion foolish or premature? Will Miss Barnes think I presume too much?”

  “No,” Mariah assured him. “She will think you a man with honorable intentions.”

  Did Thomas Piper, whoever he was, have honorable intentions toward her?

  My only books

  Were woman’s looks,

  And folly’s all they’ve taught me . . .

  – Sir Thomas Moore

  chapter 27

  Mariah sat at the kitchen table, lingering over coffee and her manuscript. Just outside, Albert Phelps was chatting, advising, and lending a hand as Dixon worked in the garden. His voice carried clearly on the still day, and Mariah overheard much of the one-sided conversation.

  “Know why I like plants?” Mr. Phelps asked.

  Dixon made no reply, but clearly none was needed.

  “Because I like being surrounded by living things. Makes a man . . . a widower . . . a bit less lonesome, you see.” He cleared his throat. “Do . . . you ever get lonesome, Miss Dixon?”

  My goodness, Mariah thought. The man was smitten indeed.

  Mariah rose to refill her cup. Through the window, she watched as a lad from the great house jogged up the lane, calling for Mr. Phelps. Apparently the housekeeper, Mrs. Strong, wanted yet more flowers for the house party. The gardener dutifully hurried away, waving his hat in farewell.

  Martin ambled out from the stable and picked up the hoe Mr. Phelps had abandoned. “Hello, Miss Dixon. Have you seen Maggie today?”

  “No. Wonder what is keeping her.”

  For several moments, the two worked companionably together, Martin managing the tool somewhat awkwardly with his hook. Then he hesitated. “Miss Dixon, I have been wondering. . . . Do you mind when people address you as Dixon?”

  Mariah stiffened. He meant when she addressed Dixon by her surname.

  Dixon said easily, “I am used to it. The girls’ father started it, when I elected to stay on as general companion and dogsbody after Miss Julia went away to school. Before that, it was Nanny Dixon.”

  “May I ask your Christian name?”

  She tilted her head to look at him. “Susan.”

  “A lovely name.”

  “Is it?” She resumed hoeing. “I admit I like hearing it – it’s been so long. It is, of course, what my parents called me, and sometimes I miss it.”

  “I should be honored to call you Susan,” Martin said. “If you give me leave to do so.”

  Susan Dixon smiled. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

  Feeling sheepish and chagrined, Mariah returned to her chair.

  Several minutes later, Dixon came into the kitchen, removing her gardening gloves as she did so.

  “Hello, Dix – Miss Dixon.”

  Dixon looked from the kitchen window to Mariah’s no-doubt-guilty expression. She slanted her a knowing look. “I don’t mind when you call me Dixon, Mariah. But Martin asked, and from a man, I would prefer Miss or my given name.”

  “I understand.” Mariah winked. “Susan.”

  But Susan Dixon did not smile. Instead she sighed, not looking at all happy.

  “I have never had one suitor, Mariah, and now, it seems, I have two. I thought it would be pleasant. But it is not. I do not wish to hurt either of them.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Mariah soothed. “But neither can you make them both happy.”

  Dixon stared off at nothing. “I know. But I don’t like it. Perhaps I had better stay clear of them both.”

  Mariah shook her head. “You needn’t sacrifice your own happiness, Dixon. I must admit it warmed my heart to see you and Martin working together in the garden, discussing Maggie. Like a little family you were, and I the interloper.”

  “You? Never say so. It is your house, after all.”

  “It is our house, Dixon, and shall be for as long as I can keep you.” She added thoughtfully, “Though I fear that shall not be for long.”

  Finally, the much-anticipated day arrived. Matthew awoke in a sweat of nerves and ordered a bath for himself, though he’d had one the night before. He spent extra time on his ablutions and patiently endured the fussy valet’s interminable shaving, combing, and cravattying without complaint. He walked through the house, his polished top boots echoing through the grand entry hall, and noted with approval how bright and tidy all appeared. Yes, he could get used to being the master of such a place.

  The thought gave him pause. Could he really? A man like him, who’d spent his life in a humble cottage and cramped ship’s quarters?

  Horse hooves clattered up the drive, and Matthew stepped out onto the portico. Yes, he decided. With the right woman at my side.

  And there she was – her fair face, wide at the brow and pointy at the chin, framed in the traveling coach window. Her hair still was as golden as he remembered, curled at her temples beneath a high-perched hat.

  Matthew’s heart began to drum in hard, slow thuds as regular as a death knell. What have I done?

  What had he been thinking to bring her here, to invite her to reject him all over again? To reopen the deep and still-painful wound?

  He recalled the last time he had seen her, her wide eyes gleaming with unshed tears. How his chest had ached to see it. . . .

  Isabella had smiled bravely up at him, the expression pushing a tear from each blue eye. The tears trailed down her fair cheeks; and his heart, his hopes, plummeted with them. “I know you will be a great success, Captain Bryant,” she said, emphasizing the new title to which he was still growing accustomed. He had achieved the rank, but not the wealth required by a man like Stanley Forsythe.

  He took her hand. “I will talk to your father. Make him see reason.”

  “No, please don’t.” She shook her head, blond ringlets bouncing. “It will only anger him. And I know him too well to hope he will ever change his mind.”

  His whole body ached to hold her, to make her his. “I will not insult you by suggesting we elope. . . .” He let the notion hang in the air between them, praying she would insist but knowing how desperate and foolish and scandalous the idea was.

  She shivered and pulled her hand from his.

  He knew then. It wasn’t merely her father rejecting him. She was rejecting him as well.

  “Is there someone else?” he asked, hating the edge in his voice.

  “No!” she cried, adamant, nearly offended.

  Relieved, he grasped her shoulders. “Isabella, listen to me – ”

  “I am sorry, Captain.” She stepped back, shaking her head once more. “We have always known Father opposed the match, and I . . . I am at last persuaded he is right. I am not fit to be a naval officer’s wife. I would detest living alone in some port town far from London while you were gone to sea. I would die of boredom.”

  She gave a lame little laugh, and he was reminded of how young she was. Why did he have to fall for a girl barely eighteen? He was
nearly eight years her senior. But age was the least of what divided them.

  Realizing he had lost her, anger and grief battled within him.

  And battled still.

  Matthew stood there on the portico, dumb, frozen, as the groom opened the coach door and let down the step. Matthew should be there. It should be his hand reaching up to her, offering to help her down. Idiot!

  From behind, he felt a push. Hart, no doubt. He could always be counted upon to deliver a well-timed shove. Matthew’s legs came to life beneath him, catching up quickly with the rest of his body.

  What would he see in her expression? Revulsion? Forced politeness? Admiration? Regret?

  He would not act the fool. He would not. He would remain cool. Friendly, but detached. Past it. Over her. Had not four years passed, after all?

  She looked up as he approached. “Captain Bryant!” Her voice rang out, her blue eyes brightened, and her smile was instant and apparently sincere.

  His every nerve tingled to attention. “Miss Forsythe.” He bowed, then straightened, his gaze lingering over the planes of her face, as beautiful as he remembered.

  “How good to see you again.” She looked from him to the house behind. “My, my, this house suits you. I always knew you would be a great success one day.”

  He felt a surge of pleasure akin to the thrill of victory. “Thank you. You are very welcome. I am glad you could come.”

  “I was delighted to receive your invitation.”

  She was all warmth. All admiration and approval. If only she were not engaged, this might all be quite easy.

  But little in life, Matthew knew, ever was.

  Miss Forsythe turned to her companion, who was smoothing her skirts beside her. “Miss Ann Hutchins. You remember Captain Bryant, I trust?”

  The rather officious-looking young woman had dark auburn hair and a polite smile. “I do. Though I believe it was Commander Bryant at the time.”

  He managed to breathe. “Miss Hutchins, you are most welcome. And may I present my friend, Lieutenant William Hart.”