The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 29

  The clash of steel echoed through the room. The pantomime replaced by a very real drama.

  “Gentlemen, please,” Miss Hutchins said. “You will both regret this in the morning.”

  Hart muttered, “If they live that long.”

  “I am happy to fight, Bryant,” Parker said glibly. “But I must know why you do. Have you bedded her as well?”

  “No.” Clang. Matthew struck hard. “I fight to stop your libelous tongue. Why should you want to hurt her? What has she ever done to you – ruined a stupid party?”

  “It is what she has not done to me that raises my ire. The light-skirt had the nerve to rebuff me.”

  Bile seared Matthew’s throat. “You vile snake. You are no gentleman, sir.” He charged forward, but Parker dodged and parried.

  Isabella threw up her hands. “You will fight over her? For her honor? When we all know she hasn’t got any?”

  Matthew clenched his jaw. But before he could speak, Crawford said, “Stay out of this, Belle, please.”

  She whirled on him. “Why should I? It affects me more than it does either of them. After all, it was my future husband she slept with.”

  Crawford leapt to his feet, throwing his chair back with such force that it careened into a table and sent a large vase shattering to the floor.

  “Enough!” he shouted. It was such a raw, plaintive cry that all froze, shocked into silence.

  “I went to Miss Aubrey’s room that night. I told her I would make a huge, scandalous scene if she did not let me in. That is the only reason she consented. She trusted me, foolish girl! And I took advantage of that trust.”

  The confirming words hit Matthew like a punch in the gut, and he barely resisted the urge to deliver just such a blow to James Crawford.

  Crawford paced the floor while the others looked on, mesmerized as though watching a Shakespearean tragedy, the fight forgotten.

  “I told her I loved her, and she no doubt believed me. I certainly wanted her, like a child who wants what is forbidden him.” He ran a hand through his hair. “For myself, I would have married her long ago. But my life is not my own. My father pulls the strings, and I dance to his will. He decreed I must marry Miss Forsythe.”

  Isabella’s face hardened, but Crawford hastened to add, “And what should have been a sweet mandate was not enough for me. After I returned from the continent, I decided I had to see Miss Aubrey one more time. Alone. After all, I had allowed her to think I would marry her. I had written to her, many love letters. . . .”

  Helen Mabry gasped. Everyone knew letters from a single man to a woman were tantamount to a proposal.

  Crawford slapped his chest. “I am the scoundrel. Me. Not her! But that is not how polite society works, is it? The man can do as he pleases as long as he does not commit the unpardonable sin of breaking an engagement. Dashed unfair if you ask me, but nobody has. You were all too busy condemning her.”

  He turned a flinty face toward Matthew and squared his shoulders. “If you want to fight somebody, fight me. If you want to run me through with the sword, have ready. I deserve it for what I have done to her.” Crawford spread his arms, exposing his chest and belly. Offering himself.

  Matthew stood where he was, stymied by the strange, sickening scene. Parker too stood transfixed. Taking advantage of their indecision, Hart and Browne strode forward as one, each grasping one of Parker’s arms. Hart jerked the sword from his hand.

  Miss Forsythe’s normally porcelain complexion was florid with mortification. Her steely indignation wilted, and she buried her face in her hands. Ann Hutchins hurried to her side while young Helen Mabry merely stared at them all, dumbfounded.

  Matthew pressed his eyes closed. Mariah, he thought, and found himself running from the room after her, even though he knew it wasn’t his place to do so. But if Crawford was just going to stand there like some maudlin martyr and the ingrate Parker make no move to apologize, then he would go after Mariah himself. Find her, try to console her, if such a thing were possible. To apologize for his own part in a charade gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  There has fallen a splendid tear

  From the passion-flower at the gate.

  – Tennyson

  chapter 33

  Matthew sprinted down the drive and turned up the gatehouse lane. Seeing Mariah ahead of him, he called, “Miss Aubrey. Wait. Please.”

  She kept walking, weeping, voice shaking. “You said I would play my role and nothing would happen. There and gone.”

  He struggled to keep pace beside her, already out of breath from his run. “I know. I am very sorry. I never dreamed Parker would do such a thing.”

  “You said no one would say anything to me or about me. I would just perform the stupid play so your Miss Forsythe would be happy and that was all.”

  “I know, I know. I am an idiot. I never suspected Parker’s plan.”

  “I should have.” She shook her head. “I should have known. He was too kind, too flattering. It seems so obvious now. I am the most foolish girl alive.”

  He snagged her sleeve, halting her at last. “No, Parker is the imbecile. And Crawford, for that matter. You ran out before he delivered his dramatic monologue.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “I cannot stand to hear more.”

  He gently pried one of her hands away and clasped it in his. “This you will want to hear. He confessed everything. His ungentlemanlike behavior, his leading you to believe he would marry you, your innocence in arranging the unchaperoned meeting, since he – ”

  “I am not innocent.” She shook her head, tears still falling. “I should never have opened my door. Never have trusted him. I should have resisted. . . .”

  “Hush. None of us is perfectly innocent.” He squeezed her hand. “I am not. We have all failed in one way or another. The point is, Crawford admitted he was to blame. Is that not good news?”

  She held out her other hand, palm up, and belatedly he fished out and handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and nose. “It makes no real difference, but yes, I am relieved to hear it.” She gave a ragged sigh, then added flatly, “I suppose this will clear the way for you and Miss Forsythe.” Clearly, she did not relish the notion.

  He had not thought of that. How strange that she should. “I don’t know. Crawford seems determined to obey his father’s wishes, and if Miss Forsythe will still have him . . .”

  “Perhaps she won’t. Perhaps she will now see him for what he really is. And what a superior man you are.”

  Was he? At the moment Matthew did not feel superior. He felt like a failure. Weak. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Mariah was the superior woman, but he refrained. How muddled was his thinking. All he knew was that he wanted to take Mariah in his arms and kiss away her tears and send the rest of them packing. But after Crawford’s treatment of her, that was the last thing he should do. And might Miss Aubrey be right? Might this not be the breakthrough he had been waiting for?

  He cleared his throat. “Again, I apologize, Miss Aubrey. If there is anything I can do, you must let me know. In the meantime, I had better return to the house before my guests do more damage.”

  Damage, thought Mariah, watching the captain walk away, is the perfect word for it.

  Dixon and Martin sat up with her, succoring her with hot tea, savory biscuits, and unconditional friendship. Dixon listened with tears and understanding as Mariah related the events of the evening – Martin, with mounting anger sparking in his normally placid eyes.

  “Shall I avenge you, Miss Mariah? Find that scallywag and give him his due?”

  “No, Martin, but thank you for the offer.”

  He patted her hand with his callused paw. “You know I would help you if I could.”

  She nodded. Tears tightened her throat, making it dangerous to speak. No wonder Aunt Fran had prized Jeremiah Martin. What stalwart, loyal friends he and Dixon were.

  Mariah bid the two good-night, leaving them talking quietly in the kitchen.
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  Knowing she would not find sleep for several hours, Mariah settled herself in her bedchamber with paper and quill. She felt she needed to write, to purge from her mind the night’s disaster – and the misdeeds at the root of it – on the scapegoat shoulders of Lydia Sorrow.

  Even as he kissed and held her she knew she should protest, shove him away, sound the alarm.

  But she did not.

  And soon, it was too late. She had given in. Given all.

  The door burst open. Not the adjoining door as she had feared, but the main door. Light from a candle lamp arced into the room. Lydia winced under its glare.

  And the glare of the woman holding it.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to sneak off to her.”

  “Shh . . . Cynthia, calm down.”

  “Calm down! When I find you in another woman’s bed?”

  “Lower your voice, madam.”

  “I will not. On the contrary. By morning the whole house shall hear of this. The whole county. I don’t know which of us you have hurt more!”

  With that the young woman turned and stormed from the room.

  Lydia sat up, sweating and chilled, stunned and sickened by the scene. They had been discovered. She – compromised. Would the woman really tell everyone? If so, Lydia would be ruined in every sense of the word. Only a quick marriage would quiet the scandal and cruel gossip. And then, only in time.

  Lydia recognized the woman and knew she had briefly met her, but in her state of mind could not recall her name. “Who is she?” she breathed.

  A cold pall shrouded his features, turning down every plane, every line of his beloved face until she barely recognized him. His lip curled, and he refused to meet her gaze.

  “My wife.”

  Mariah reread the last line. Then she changed it to read My future wife. The phrase was more fitting. At least for now.

  There was no breakthrough with Miss Forsythe that night. She took to her room before Matthew returned to the house, sequestered with her bosom friend, Miss Hutchins. At least, Matthew consoled himself, she had closeted herself away from Crawford as well. He saw the man in the salon after midnight, head in his hands.

  Matthew spent the night alternatively praying Isabella would come to him and wishing she would go.

  In the morning he arose, dressed quickly, and took himself down to the breakfast room. But Isabella didn’t appear. He learned from one of the footmen that she had requested breakfast sent up to her on a tray.

  Captain Parker and Mr. Browne left early, and the others soon began packing up as well, instead of seeing the final week through as originally planned. Only Millicent Mabry, recovered from the oysters, seemed disappointed to see the party end.

  Mrs. Parker, who had attended Millicent during her brief illness and had therefore missed the drama of the previous night, was clearly piqued with her son, but only, it seemed, because he had once again failed to take notice of Miss Hutchins as she’d hoped. Matthew felt sorry for the woman, disappointed as she was over her wastrel son. He thanked her warmly for her assistance and promised himself to visit his own mother at the first opportunity.

  Matthew had just stepped back inside after seeing off the Miss Mabrys, when he heard raised voices upstairs and went up to see what the matter was. Midway along the corridor, he saw Crawford at the door of Isabella’s bedchamber, hand on the latch, face pressed close, whining and cajoling. Matthew wondered if he was employing the same tactics he’d used to gain entry into Miss Aubrey’s room. Miss Forsythe, it seemed, was more immune to his persuasion.

  “Isabella, this is ridiculous!” he hissed. “Open the door so we can talk.”

  “No. Go away,” came her muffled response.

  Matthew was surprised that hearing Miss Forsythe rebuff the man was not more satisfying than it was. The raised voices grated on him, and he turned and loped down the stairs. He took himself back outside, to breathe in fresh air and solitude.

  Several minutes later Mr. Crawford left the house. Alone. The sheepish man avoided his gaze as he passed and disappeared into the stable. Ten minutes or so later, the groom threw wide the door, and Crawford emerged on his horse and trotted away. His adversary was retreating. Matthew waited for the surge of elation to wash over him. It did not come.

  Eleven o’clock. Noon. One. Still no sign of Miss Forsythe. Was she avoiding him as well? Likely she blamed him for the debacle, since he had allowed Miss Aubrey to participate. Or perhaps she was embarrassed and defensive over her connection with Crawford but was too proud to admit it. Whatever her feelings, it seemed she and Miss Hutchins planned to stay in her room until everyone else had gone.

  Matthew was in the library, writing a letter to his mother, when a soft knock interrupted his train of thought. He glanced up to see the fair hair of Miss Forsythe as she poked her head inside the room.

  “May I?”

  “Of course. Come in.” Matthew rose and stepped around the desk, his heart beating oddly, irregularly, in a strange combination of hope and dread.

  She stopped a few yards from him and looked uncharacteristically timid – eyes furtive, hands clasped.

  To break the silence, Matthew said, “Mr. Crawford has taken his leave.”

  “Yes, I know. I sent him away.”

  Matthew felt his brows rise in question and waited, holding his breath.

  “I am through with him.” She glided forward. “I know now it is you I want. You.” Before he could respond, she threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him fervently.

  His body and brain reacted with a collision of desire and revulsion. He wrenched his mouth from hers. “Miss Forsythe, have you forgotten your intended so soon?”

  Again she pressed her body to his, but this time instead of desire, pure irritation rose up within him. He grasped her elbows and thrust her from him. “Isabella, look. I know you were hurt, and you probably want to injure him in return. But not with me. It is too late for us.”

  She slowly shook her head, incredulous. “Did you not beg me to break my engagement with Crawford and marry you instead? I thought you and I had an understanding.”

  An understanding? Matthew’s mind whirled and rebelled. Had they? No! But if she had broken her engagement with Crawford because he had offered marriage . . .

  Isabella’s eyes glistened. “Will you betray me as well?”

  Her pained words stilled Matthew, rendered him stunned, speechless. He loved Mariah, though he had fought it for some time. But was he duty-bound to Isabella? His mind rehearsed all the things he had said to her in trying to win her. Yes, any woman might reasonably assume . . . Oh, dear God. What have I done? Forgive my foolish pride!

  He said gruffly, “You have broken your engagement?”

  She squared her shoulders. “I am through with James Crawford. He’s a fool. Why do you think I tarried so long in marrying him?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you had your doubts about the man.”

  She looked up at him expectantly. “Well then, was I not right to doubt?”

  Matthew was filled with the dire angst he always felt after a bloody battle. What was wrong with him? This – she – was what he had wanted. Worked for. Why did he not take her in his arms and beg her to marry him? Why did he feel he should run far and fast and never look back?

  “Miss Forsythe. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

  Her eyes dimmed. “Of course. Is everything all right?”

  He muttered, “Just, ah, give me a few minutes, please.” He turned and walked from the room, leaving her standing there, clearly surprised and concerned by his reaction. In the hall, he strode toward the front door, as though his legs had already decided to make good on his impulse to flee.

  Pausing, he ran a hand across his face and diverted to the front windows instead. There he stared out at the gardens of Windrush Court. He was so close. . . . Everything he’d thought he wanted was waiting in the palm of his hand. His nerves jangled. His stomach turned sour. He fi
sted his hands at his sides, whether to capture the dream or crush it, he was not certain.

  Hoofbeats rumbled into his awareness. Through the wavy glass, Matthew saw a horse and rider galloping up the drive, raising a cloud of dust. Matthew frowned and stepped outside. James Crawford rode up, horse heaving and lathered. Whip marks crisscrossed its hindquarters. Angered at the sight, Matthew strode toward the stable, calling for the groom.

  Dismounting, Crawford snarled, “Where is she?”

  “In the library. This poor animal looks half dead.”

  “I rode above twelve miles before turning back.”

  “With no thought to your horse?”

  “I had someone more important on my mind.” Without awaiting a reply, Crawford barreled across the drive and up the stairs to the house.

  The young groom scurried out, and Matthew bid him to care for the ill-used creature. Then he followed Crawford inside.

  When Matthew stepped into the library, Isabella pulled away from Crawford and stepped to Matthew’s side, grasping his arm.

  Crawford frowned. “Isabella. What are you doing?”

  “I am returning to Captain Bryant, as you see.”

  Crawford’s mouth was a hard line. “You and I are engaged to be married.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “An error I intend to redress.”

  “You would not dare. I have waited above a year for you – given you plenty of time to get over your pet about last summer. I’ll not let you go now without a fight. Break our engagement and I will sue your father for breach of promise.”

  “It is all about the money for you, is it not? You don’t really care about me. Never have.”

  “That is not true, Belle, and you know it. Yes, my father forced me in the beginning, but I have come to love you. Would I have waited all this time, passing up dozens of pretty, suitable girls, otherwise?”

  She lifted her chin. “Go and marry one of your pretty, suitable girls. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t mean that. You are merely vexed. I know I acted stupidly, and I am sorry for it.”