The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  As if anticipating his intentions, she turned away. Or perhaps she had seen the groom approaching before Matthew did. Swallowing his disappointment, Matthew handed off the reins and followed her into the house.

  Still thinking about Miss Aubrey’s tears and Crawford’s guilty expression, Matthew sought out James Crawford the next afternoon. Finding him unoccupied on the back veranda while the rest of the party played ninepins, Matthew took advantage of the moment to speak to him alone. He waited until the man had helped himself to a drink from the cart and then approached.

  “Mr. Crawford, might I have a private word?”

  The man looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “I suppose. Though something tells me I shall not like it.”

  Matthew led the way down the veranda stairs and away from the keen ears of the attending footmen. Reaching the side yard, he said in a low voice, “Will you not do your duty by Miss Aubrey?”

  “Duty?” Crawford echoed, incredulous. “Has she put you up to this?”

  “Not at all. But the tale of your ill treatment has reached my ears.”

  “What has she said? I suppose she told you she and I had an understanding, but we did not. Not officially. Besides, my father would never have countenanced the match. She had to know that.”

  “Did she?” Matthew wondered what women found to admire in the man.

  “I am fond of the girl, I admit. But she would not have suited then and certainly not now.”

  “What do you mean ‘not now’? Now that you have destroyed her character?”

  “A lady must guard her own character.”

  Matthew’s hands fisted at his sides, angry at Crawford, yes, but also with Mariah. Why on earth had she trusted this man? “She no doubt believed you would wed her. So why not do your duty as a gentleman, marry her, and restore her reputation?”

  Crawford’s thin lip curled. “You would like that, would you not? Then you could have Miss Forsythe for yourself. Don’t think I don’t see your true motive. All your talk of duty. You would have me injure Miss Forsythe and my own status as a gentleman by breaking our engagement? Such things are not done, man, as you well know. Or would know, were you a gentleman yourself. But perhaps a man of your station does not know these things. All the fine clothes and fine estates in the world won’t make you one of us. You think Belle would have you, when she rejected you once before? What – because you now have a few thousand pounds to throw around?”

  Matthew spoke through clenched teeth. “No. She never sought to marry for money. That is your goal.”

  Crawford huffed. “You were beneath her then, and you are beneath her now.”

  “True,” Matthew hissed. “But I, at least, would endeavor to deserve her. You never shall.”

  James Crawford landed the first punch, a stinging right to his jaw. Matthew’s head reared back, but he managed to keep his feet. He returned the favor with a deep blow to the man’s gut, and when Crawford doubled over, with a fist to his jaw. Crawford fell to the ground with a grunt and a curse.

  The fight drew the attention of the ninepin players. Mr. Browne looked as though he might join the fray, but Mr. Hart stayed him by shoving his walking stick before him like a gate. The poet took one look at Hart’s fierce expression and stepped back.

  A lazy applause sounded from the veranda above them, and Matthew glanced up to see Ned Parker slowly clapping his hands, a smirk of amusement on his handsome face. “My, my, how diverting. Nothing in town to rival it.”

  Matthew turned and saw Isabella Forsythe staring at the fallen man, hand pressed to her mouth. Crawford groaned. With a fleeting look at his assailant, Isabella hurried past and knelt beside her intended. And in that bleak look, Matthew knew he had well and truly lost her.

  Mariah opened the kitchen door, saw the blood trickling from Captain Bryant’s lip, and gasped. “You are bleeding! Come in.”

  She ushered him inside, where he slumped into a kitchen chair with a loud exhale. She left him a moment to fetch a basin of water and a cloth, returning as quickly as she could.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I was a fool. That is what happened. I tried to talk sense to your Mr. Crawford.”

  She touched the cloth to his mouth and he winced. “That was foolish. And he isn’t my anything.”

  “I was trying to remedy that.”

  Her hand paused in its ministrations. “Captain Bryant. You ought not to have done so.”

  “I know. The man is fond of you though. Admits it.”

  The cloth hovered midair. “Does he?”

  “But he is determined to marry Miss Forsythe.”

  “Did you really think you could change his mind?”

  He groaned. “I don’t know what I thought. Probably didn’t – that’s the problem. Of course, he accused me of urging him to break things off with Isabella so I could have her myself. As if I could.”

  “Was that not your motivation?” It still saddened Mariah to see the lengths he would go to try to win back the woman who had spurned him.

  “In part, of course. I have never made a secret of my intentions toward her. But I would help you if I could, Miss Aubrey.”

  “Don’t, Captain. Please, let it be.” She dabbed his mouth once more, inspected it, and then said with forced brightness, “There, the bleeding has stopped.”

  He looked at her closely. Too closely. “Has it? Has it truly stopped, Miss Aubrey?”

  All women, as authors, are feeble and tiresome.

  I wish they were forbidden to write.

  – Nathaniel Hawthorne, letter to his publisher, 1852

  chapter 31

  Aweek after Mr. Crosby’s last visit and Martin’s revelation, Mariah opened her door to Hugh Prin-Hallsey. His punctuality seemed a strong indication that her letter had well served its purpose.

  “Hello, Hugh. Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course I came. Did you not send word that you had found something of your aunt’s to interest me at last?”

  “Indeed I did. Please come in.” She gestured him into the drawing room.

  There, he sat on the wing chair but leaned forward, clearly eager to learn why she had summoned him.

  “Here is what I have found,” she began. She placed Euphemia’s Return on the low table before him, then stacked her aunt’s journals and manuscripts beside it.

  He frowned at the unfamiliar volumes. “What are these?”

  “Journals my aunt kept from the time she was a girl.”

  He sputtered. “But you told me she left you nothing – ”

  “Nothing of yours,” she interrupted. “Nothing of value. At least, not to an honest man.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I have finished Euphemia’s Return and read my aunt’s journals and writings as well. I find the style and language notably similar.”

  He leaned back. “And you are a literary expert now, are you, Miss Aubrey?”

  “Even some of the settings and names are the same.”

  “That would not be so surprising, considering she and I lived in the same house. Knew many of the same people.”

  “Even the hand is the same.”

  For a moment he stilled, staring at her. Then he tapped the cover of Euphemia’s Return. “You could not tell that from a printed book.”

  “No. But Crosby and Company kindly showed me the original manuscript from which the book was typeset and printed.”

  He studied her, measuring the threat she presented, she guessed, and formulating his response. He crossed one long leg over the other, apparently unconcerned. “I am not sure I believe you. But if you must know, Francesca kindly agreed to rewrite my pages in her own hand so that the publisher would credit the author feminine – a real Mrs. Wimble.”

  Mariah had expected this. Mr. Crosby had said the handwriting appeared decidedly feminine, and had guessed the same – that if Hugh were Mrs. Wimble, he had either hired a female scribe or had managed to imitate a feminine s
tyle of penmanship.

  “My aunt, the woman you so openly despised, did this great favor for you?”

  He shrugged. “She was not all bad, as I believe I said before. Perhaps she felt she owed me something for trying to usurp my mother’s place . . . or for allowing her niece the gatehouse gratis.”

  “Mrs. Prin-Hallsey owed you nothing.”

  He grimaced, as he always did, upon hearing this appellation used for her aunt.

  Mariah pressed, “Your stepmother would never have rewritten a book for you, for she was too busy writing her own.”

  His dark eyes sparked in anger. “She was not my stepmother, nor mother of any kind. She was a thorn in my side and a threat to the Prin-Hallsey name. She took and took from me, and if I did take something in return, I had every right to do so.”

  “I am surprised you would put your name on anything Francesca Prin-Hallsey wrote, when you admired her so little.”

  Hugh smirked. “Ah, but I did not put my name on it, did I?”

  There it was, basically a confession. Mariah barely restrained herself from glancing toward the kitchen door, where Martin was supposed to be waiting. Had something happened to forestall him?

  Hugh continued, his foot dangling and swaying over his crossed leg. “Wouldn’t think of putting my name to such female tripe. Romantic drivel. Worthless in terms of literary value, but quite lucrative financially, I find. As heir, everything within the estate belongs to me. It was about time that woman turned out to be good for something.”

  Mariah straightened her shoulders. “No wonder she brought her other novels here after the first went missing. I shall show them to your publisher and he will know you did not write Euphemia’s Return.”

  “Other novels?” he repeated, alert. “How many are there?”

  “Two, but you shall never have them, unless you buy printed copies like everybody else.”

  “You mean to have them published?”

  “Under her real name, yes.”

  He put both feet on the floor. “I don’t believe I can allow you to do that.”

  Mariah met his glare with an icy one of her own. “I am afraid you have no choice.”

  “Don’t I?” He leaned forward. “Do you think the publisher shall take your word over mine?”

  Actually, Mr. Crosby had been slow to believe her. She and Martin had walked together to the Mill Inn to present her theory to Mr. Crosby, barely catching him before the Oxford coach departed. He’d finally agreed to take one of Francesca’s manuscripts back to his offices to compare it to the original of Euphemia’s Return.

  Hugh sneered and added, “Why would Crosby and Company believe a woman with your reputation?”

  At last, Martin pushed open the kitchen door and held it as Mr. Crosby strode into the room.

  “Because Crosby and Company heard everything you just said.”

  Mariah winced. Mr. Crosby had heard everything. Oh yes, he had.

  Matthew turned over in bed yet again. Illogical! That’s what it was. Why should his thoughts be consumed with her now, when Isabella was under his very roof at last? This time it was not nightmares of war that disturbed his sleep, but thoughts of Mariah Aubrey.

  Illogical!

  The more Matthew learned about Miss Aubrey, the more he realized he should distance himself from her. So why did he find himself drawn to her? He could not allow himself to feel anything more than friendship for her. And even then, friendship from afar. Anything else would ruin his well-laid plans.

  Overheated from tossing and turning, Matthew threw back his bedclothes, rose, and strode to the mantel clock. In a shaft of moonlight he saw that it had just gone midnight. He had awoken after less than an hour and doubted he would return to sleep anytime soon. Restless, he pulled on trousers, slipped a shirt over his head, and wrestled on his boots, which he preferred to the fancy buckled shoes, though shoes were easier to get on. Too warm to bother with a coat, he slipped from his room and passed silently through the house. From somewhere down the corridor he heard the faint sound of a female giggle but did not recognize the voice.

  Stepping outside, he was at once cooled as the night breeze passed through the fine fabric of his shirt. His boots crunched over the gravel as he walked on, hoping to clear his head. And his heart. Above him the sky sparkled with stars as numerous as the diamonds he had once seen in a chest of confiscated African treasure.

  “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained . . .” He recalled reading that passage from the Psalms on more than one Sabbath in his role as spiritual leader, at least on Sundays, when the crew assembled for divine services after inspection. Often he had felt like a hypocrite, taking the thick black book – a rare gift from his father – in his hands and reading to the men as though he were worthy to do so.

  He was not.

  Matthew did believe in God. One could hardly sail the mighty seas and not believe in, revere, and stand in awe of his creator. And Jesus must have been powerful indeed, to calm the wind and the waves. Sometimes, however, Matthew could not believe that God knew a speck like him, or cared. Perhaps it was because his earthly father was cold and distant. Still, Matthew hoped he was wrong.

  Matthew thought about another line from the Psalms, and recited it to himself as he walked. “For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake lead me and guide me.”

  Mariah sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the warmth of the dying embers in the cookstove as she sipped a late-night cup of tea. After the stressful events of the day, she felt too restless to sleep and instead sat rereading one of her aunt’s novels by candlelight into the wee hours. Chaucer jumped up and sat on the chair beside her. He prodded her hand with his head, hoping to be petted. As she lifted her hand to oblige him, movement caught her eye through the kitchen window.

  She rose. There in the moonlit back garden, Captain Bryant paced, side to side, not approaching her door, nor retreating. She watched him for several minutes, then went to the door and cracked it open.

  “Tea?”

  He stopped his pacing. For a moment he stared at her almost sullenly, as though he would refuse.

  “Or warm milk, if you prefer?”

  He exhaled deeply and slogged to the door.

  Mariah laid aside the manuscript and set about filling the kettle. She placed it on the stove, bending to stir the embers. In his present state he likely wouldn’t notice if the tea was tepid or weak.

  He slumped into the seat, almost atop Chaucer, who meowed in indignation and bolted from the room. When Mariah sat in her chair, he reached out and caught her ink-stained hand in his.

  He said nothing, only studied her fingers.

  Nervously, Mariah began, “Martin has saved newspaper accounts of naval victories at sea, including your glorious triumphs.”

  Captain Bryant snorted softly. “Hardly glorious. I still have nightmares about all the bloodshed.”

  She gently tugged her hand, but he retained it, seemingly loath to let it go. “You did all those things to prove yourself to Miss Forsythe?”

  He gave a brittle laugh. “I once thought so. I have come to realize she shares that privilege with my father.”

  She waited for him to explain. She was tempted to tell him about Hugh Prin-Hallsey, but refrained, realizing Captain Bryant had other things on his mind. She allowed him to keep hold of her hand, though she knew she should not.

  He kept his gaze on her fingers. “No matter what I do, how much I achieve, it is never enough for him. Not being promoted to captain, not all the victories and prizes, not this estate. There is no rank high enough, no prize – or house – big enough to earn his esteem.”

  “Surely you needn’t do all that to earn your father’s affection. You are his son, after all.”

  “Then why is he never pleased with me?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps – ”

  “I shall tell you why,” Matthew interjected. “Because I am not my brot
her. Perfect Peter, who died at seventeen but who lives on in unadulterated perfection.”

  He rubbed his free hand over his eyes. “Peter was everything I wasn’t. Studious, quiet, always reading some lofty tome I could make little sense of. He hoped to go into the church.”

  “Let me guess,” Mariah said. “You were the mischievous one, always running about, making swords of sticks and getting into fisticuffs with boys twice your size.”

  He chuckled dryly. “I suppose that is why I thought the navy would suit me. It was everything I was good at – games of strategy, risk, fighting, swordplay. . . .”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, paused, and swallowed again. “When Peter died, it was as if my parents died with him. All their joy gone. What little interest my father had shown in me dried up. No matter the good reports that came of me, all seemed to fall on deaf ears.”

  Mariah asked gently, “Did your father blame you for Peter’s death?”

  “Lord help me, I hope not,” Matthew said ruefully. “I don’t think I could bear that along with the rest. I don’t see how he could, as I was already away at sea when Peter contracted lung fever. Always was rather sickly. Such a drafty, damp house. It’s why I was so determined to bring my mother here. I fear she has the same weak constitution Peter had.”

  The kettle steamed, but Mariah stayed where she was, her hand in his.

  They sat in silence for several minutes. Then Matthew shrugged. “At all events, I suppose that is why it was such a nettle to my soul when Mr. Forsythe pronounced me unsuitable. It was as if he was in league with my father. As if his judgment validated what I had grown to believe – I would never be good enough, no matter how hard I tried.”

  Mariah squeezed his hand. “Then perhaps it is time to stop trying.”

  He met her gaze, his eyes large and intense in the dim light. How tormented he looked, yet how appealing. She wished yet again that her secrets did not stand between them. Even if Isabella Forsythe did.