The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 25

  Parker and the two ladies retreated while the others hurried away in search of the next clue.

  After the treasure hunt, the group dispersed, some to the house, some to the stable, some to the gardens. Matthew decided to call on Miss Aubrey and ask if any of his guests distressed her. To offer to keep them away from the gatehouse if she liked. But as he neared the wooded lane leading to the gatehouse, he heard voices and paused. Through the trees, Matthew was taken aback to see Miss Aubrey standing near Bartholomew Browne. The man’s hair was too long, Matthew thought, especially as he did not tie it back. But he supposed poets need not concern themselves with fashion.

  The two were speaking earnestly together, as though well acquainted. Miss Aubrey did not appear at ease, however. In fact she appeared agitated. And why would that be?

  Bartholomew Browne was a married man, or had been, until his wife died some six months or so before. Matthew was still surprised the poet had accepted the invitation. Was six months long enough to grieve the loss of a spouse? Perhaps if one had married for reasons other than love. Or perhaps one grew lonely after a half year of mourning and longed for society. Matthew decided he should not judge the man too harshly.

  “Mr. Browne, please,” Miss Aubrey said. “Do not tell anyone. It was a long time ago.”

  “And you have put all that behind you, now you are older and wiser – is that it?” His tone was mildly teasing and lilted with a Highland brogue.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “What does that say for me? For I have not given it up, irresponsible though it may be.”

  Matthew turned and walked out of hearing range, chagrined and in a state of denial. Surely it did not mean what it sounded like. Surely not. Not Miss Aubrey and Mr. Browne – whose wife had still been alive and well last summer.

  Standing there in the gatehouse lane, Mariah felt her frustration rising. Would that she had never met this Scottish poet! Why had she ever confided in him? She had imagined some bond of empathetic trust between them as likeminded individuals. Clearly she had been mistaken.

  “I wish you would not press me so,” she said. “If I were the woman, would I want it known? Clearly whoever she is, she has gone to some effort to conceal her identity.”

  “I knew it.” His dark eyes glinted. “It is you.”

  “Mr. Browne . . . !”

  “Mum’s the word, my dear. Mum’s the word. But well I remember our first meeting. And your confession of your secret desires . . .” He waggled his brows suggestively. He certainly did not comport himself like a man in mourning.

  “You make it sound so scandalous. I was still quite young and – ”

  “And the young must be forgiven their foolishness, I know.”

  Staring at facetious Mr. Browne, Mariah recalled the night she had been cursorily introduced to him, along with several other young ladies, at a ball a few years before. His wife, the ladies whispered, was home in her confinement. Mariah later saw him standing alone, looking bored. So she plucked up her courage to speak to him, expressing admiration for his new volume of poetry, and defending it against critical reviews. Flattered, he engaged her in a long conversation during which they discovered a shared love of several authors, poems, and novels. Her interest was so keen that he asked if she harbored her own secret desire to write. In confidence, she admitted that she had written a few plays and a story set in Bath – intended only for her brother and sister’s amusement. How she wished now that she had kept her mouth shut.

  “Mr. Browne,” she tried again. “I beg you would not speak of this. Of me at all, with the other guests, or your host. I am acquainted with others in the party, and I should not like them knowing I am here.”

  “And why not?”

  “I am not an invited guest, Mr. Browne. Do you wish to embarrass me, and your host?”

  “I don’t care if I do embarrass that lot. But no, I should not like to embarrass you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are more than welcome.” He winked. “Lady A.”

  Matthew returned to the house, wanting to put the whole episode from his mind, but Parker met him on the portico, glass in hand. “I was astonished to learn Miss Aubrey is here.”

  “So I gathered,” Matthew drawled.

  “Remember when I said you might yet have a chance with Isabella, because her intended was rumored to be an immoral rake? Miss Aubrey is the woman he was supposedly involved with.”

  Matthew’s stomach soured. His jumbled thoughts rattled into different slots in his mind. Not Browne. Crawford. “If that is true, why did you not tell me long before now?”

  “Why should I, when I had no idea you had ever heard of Miss Aubrey, let alone shared an estate with her?”

  Matthew huffed but did not protest further. He knew he had no reason to take the news personally. But that did not stop the bile of disappointment from rising up his throat.

  “It happened at our house party last summer,” Parker continued. “I flirted with Miss Aubrey myself when she first arrived, but unbelievable as it seems, she somehow resisted my many charms.” He smirked. “I did not witness the events myself. I was in my cups that night and slept like the dead till noon. But from what I heard, she was found in bed with Crawford. And him an engaged man . . . or rather, nearly engaged at the time. In any case, not with me – and more’s the pity. Found by Miss Forsythe herself. I gather Isabella raised quite a row that night, though since has tried to hush the thing up.”

  Matthew grew increasingly nauseated as the man prattled on.

  “Spoilt the party, I am afraid.” Parker crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “These things go on, of course, but when the future wife walks in, well, that’s sure to ruin the fun for everybody else. No wife for me, thank you. No matter what form of coercion Mamma tries next.”

  Parker slowly nodded his head. “Miss Aubrey, ey? Now the party is looking more interesting.” He elbowed Matthew. “You old devil. Where do you keep her?”

  A novel, like poetry, should have for its hero

  a person superior to the common herd of men.

  – Lady Shelley, 1819

  chapter 29

  I nstead of writing back in a week’s time, as promised, Mr. Crosby appeared at the gatehouse in person, unannounced. Maggie and Dixon were off picking gooseberries together, so Mariah answered the door herself. Seeing him, Mariah conjured up a smile and invited him in.

  “I thought this might be better,” he said. “I did not wish you to waste several days in anxious worry that you could otherwise use in writing.”

  How thoughtful, Mariah thought sourly, dreading his next words.

  “Here is what I have arranged. Thomas Piper will meet us in the Mill Inn at three o’clock today. I shall go along as chaperone, and for the sheer pleasure of seeing two authors I admire become acquainted.”

  Mariah’s heart pounded erratically. Today? “Have you met Mr. Piper?”

  Mr. Crosby screwed his lips to one side. “Not in person, no. My father met him, and I have exchanged several letters with him, but I look forward to making his acquaintance. My father thought him a colorful and interesting personage – that I do recall. There is nothing to fear, I assure you.”

  Mr. Crosby had not met him either? Having seen the two men on the road together, she had begun to feel quite certain the secret author must be Hugh Prin-Hallsey, who claimed to be the indomitable “Mrs. Wimble.” After all, he was the only author she knew, save the poet Bartholomew Browne. Did Mr. Crosby not know the identity of the man behind Mrs. Wimble or Mr. Piper?

  She asked, “You have met Mrs. Wimble, I trust? When you were making the rounds to meet all of your new authors this spring?”

  He frowned. “Actually, I was unable to arrange to meet that author. It is still an outstanding item on my agenda.”

  “I see. . . .” Mariah murmured.

  That meant Hugh could still be Thomas Piper as well as Mrs. Wimble. What would Hugh do if he learned she was Lady A? She di
d not think he would evict her, as he admitted to being a writer himself. Or, what if the author were someone else acquainted with her family? Mariah wondered which would be worse, her father finding out she was further damaging her reputation by scandalous novel writing, or Mr. Crosby learning the sordid reputation of the woman he was publishing under the guise of a lady.

  Mariah rose, rubbing her fingers, and paced across the room. “I think I may know who Thomas Piper is. Is it Hugh Prin-Hallsey?”

  “Prin-Hallsey?” Mr. Crosby frowned in concentration.

  “I saw you speaking to him on the road when you called here last month. A man on horseback – tall, dark hair?”

  “Yes, I remember him now. But I don’t think he could be Thomas Piper. I am under the impression from what my father said, and from the fact that he did the majority of his writing more than a dozen years ago, that Thomas Piper is an older man.”

  “But you do not know that for certain?”

  “I suppose it is possible that Mr. . . . ”

  “Prin-Hallsey.”

  “That he wrote The Golden Prince Adventures as a young man, but it would surprise me exceedingly to find them the work of an inexperienced youth. Has he ever been at sea?”

  But Mariah did not answer immediately. His mention of the title had caught her attention and was busy echoing through her mind, bringing her up short. The Golden Prince Adventures. The Golden Prince. Prince . . .

  Mr. Crosby asked, “Have you read his books, Miss Aubrey?”

  She shook her head.

  “They are tales of the sea,” he explained. “Swashbucklers, pirates, castaways – you know.”

  “Oh . . .” she breathed. Could it be? Had Captain Prince written stories based on his own life upon returning to England?

  Was that why Thomas Piper had not written anything in so long? Had he not the freedom to do so any longer? Mariah wondered if he would even be allowed to correspond with Mr. Crosby from Honora House or to contribute to periodicals. It seemed so unlikely. She doubted he even had the funds to post and receive letters. And if it was him, did he plan to escape his room this very day to meet Lady A in the village? He had certainly managed to free himself before. If so, she would not want to disappoint him.

  But it seemed too fantastic. More likely it was Hugh, or even Bartholomew Browne, poet-turned-novelist. Both were at Windrush Court, after all, and could easily slip away for the meeting.

  Finally, Mr. Crosby rose and said, “I don’t think you have anything to be concerned about, Miss Aubrey, but I will not pressure you further. I will walk into the village now and leave you to think. I for one look forward to meeting the man. He hasn’t written anything in far too long. Perhaps I can reinspire him.” He grinned, then extracted and consulted his pocket watch. “If you are not at the inn by half past three, I will make your apologies to Mr. Piper and take the coach back to Oxford.” He patted his pocket. “Oh, and before I forget, here is the remainder of your payment from Simon Wells. He is very pleased with your script and says rehearsals will soon begin.”

  Distracted, Mariah blindly accepted the money. “Thank you, Mr. Crosby.”

  Mariah went upstairs to stew in private but could not sit still. Instead she paced the sitting room, her soul not at peace. Was it worth the risk? Could revealing herself to someone like Hugh Prin-Hallsey or even Bartholomew Browne, who already believed she was Lady A, really help her? And what if it was Captain Prince? Kindhearted though he might be, would it be wise to trust her secret to such an unpredictable man?

  Martin knocked on the sitting-room door, hat in hand. “I heard you pacing from belowstairs. Are you all right, miss?”

  “I should be, but I am afraid.” She told him of Mr. Crosby’s request, the meeting she was already late for, the unknown man waiting to meet her right now in the Mill Inn.

  Martin stepped in and stood before her. “Miss Mariah, you needn’t go if it upsets you.”

  “But Mr. Crosby wishes it. If only I knew what manner of man this Thomas Piper is. That he intends no mischief.” She thought once more of last summer’s house party and winced. Was she opening herself to more humiliation?

  “Of course he means you no harm,” Martin said. “I assume Mr. Crosby assured you of that?”

  She threw up her hands. “Then why am I so frightened?”

  “The unknown needn’t always be frightening, miss. But never you mind – you needn’t wonder anymore.”

  “You are right. I should just meet him and have done.” She paced across the room once more.

  “Only if you want to. I shall walk with you, if you like.”

  “If only I knew I could trust him!”

  “I think you can. He must have seen something in your writing he admired, and though he hasn’t written much in years now, his name meant something once, and he thought he might help you. Advise you a bit.”

  “If his intentions are so honorable, why does he not reveal himself ?”

  Martin sat on the spare chair. “Perhaps he wanted to test the waters from the safety of shore. Perhaps he didn’t want to inflict his presence on you. To invade your privacy, your life, more than he has. This way, going through Mr. Crosby, you have the right to refuse. And if you do, he will respect that and let it lie.”

  Mariah only half heard what Martin was saying; knew he was trying to calm her, to give her a way out. Only slowly did his words begin to print themselves sensibly on the pages of her mind.

  Mariah whirled to look at him, to gape.

  Unperturbed, Martin leaned back patiently, scratching his forearm with his hook. “And I can tell you what manner of man he is,” he said easily, as if unaware of her stunned expression. “A washed-out old tar who never meant you any harm. Who’s not worth two hairs on your head. Who can hardly believe anybody ever wanted to read the bawdy adventures he wrote, but they did. In great numbers, at one time.”

  Mariah sucked in her breath. “You . . . ? Are you saying that you are Mr. Piper?”

  Suddenly the name resonated with meaning.

  He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Aye, miss. That I am. Based many of my yarns on the tales of Captain Prince, which is why I feel I owe him so much.”

  “I never guessed! Why did you not tell me?”

  “As I said, miss. I didn’t want to foist myself, my help, on you – if it was unwanted.”

  Mariah stared at him in wonderment. “Does Dixon know?”

  He shook his head. “Nobody except you knows. Your aunt Fran knew. In fact, she was the one who suggested I write down the tales in the first place. But she took my secret to the grave with her. And I’ve kept hers as well.”

  Her secret . . . Mariah studied the face of this former seaman, steward, manservant, and . . . author . . . as though for the first time. How wise and knowing the weathered face, the steady blue eyes.

  “Martin, may I show you something?”

  She retrieved her copy of Euphemia’s Return. “Remember this book, the one that received all those effusive reviews?”

  Accepting the volume, he glanced at its spine. “Yes.”

  “I think Francesca wrote it.”

  His brow furrowed. “Did she? She never let on she had got one of her novels published.”

  “That is because she didn’t. Hugh did. I believe he posed as its author and took the money for himself.”

  His eyes narrowed in thought. “She was vexed with Hugh, I recall. Accused him of taking some of her things. . . .”

  “I think that is why she stowed her other manuscripts and journals here in the gatehouse. And may explain why Hugh has been poking about.”

  Martin nodded and drew himself up straight. “What time is it?”

  She checked the mantel clock. “Half past three.”

  Martin rose. “Let’s see if we can catch Mr. Crosby. Thomas Piper wants a word.”

  The next day, Miss Forsythe – wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet to shield her fair face from the sun – took Matthew’s arm as they strolled through
the rose garden. Miss Hutchins, perched on a garden bench, and the Mabry sisters, playing at shuttlecock nearby, provided chaperones aplenty. Enjoying the warmth of her gloved hand against him, Matthew walked blindly ahead and along the drive, until he realized they had unintentionally neared the gatehouse. At least, it had been unintentional on his part.

  Isabella swept her gaze over the place. “So this is the mysterious gatehouse.”

  Matthew nodded. “Yes. My first introduction to Windrush Court. I stumbled upon it during a storm, before I had even let the place.” He did not mention being thrown from his horse.

  “Ah . . . that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Well . . .” She darted him a cautious look. “You and Miss Aubrey seem quite close.”

  “Close? How do you mean?” Prickles of alarm began creeping through his body. True, he had mentioned the poorhouse theatrical, and Hart had amused the ladies with a story of their gatehouse dinner prepared by a one-armed cook. But surely that was not enough for Isabella to come to such a conclusion.

  “A single man and a single woman living on the same estate, sharing meals and charitable causes, working side by side . . .” She let her words drift away, as though they spoke for themselves.

  “You make more of it than it is,” he insisted. “We are neighbors, yes, but we are not intimates. We are not, as you say, close.”

  She swiveled around to face him, turning her back on the gatehouse. “That is not the impression I have.” She blinked her wide eyes. “I wonder, is it the impression Miss Aubrey has?”

  “You are quite mistaken,” he said. “Miss Aubrey and I are only acquaintances.”

  “Friends?”

  “Well, perhaps, but I . . . I barely know the woman. Hart and I are friends, for example, but we have known one another for years.”

  She hesitated. “Do you . . . think it wise, considering her, well, reputation, to involve yourself so closely in her exile?”

  No, it hadn’t been wise. He saw that now. “She and I are not involved, as I said. We are not really even friends, in that sense – ”