The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  The captain dipped his head. “Thank you. My brother and his wife did not share your sentiments, however. They had not sat idle while the rumors began circulating, for lo and behold, if they didn’t have a place prepared for me when I returned. Had me declared a lunatic too, so Frederick would inherit the estate. I cannot blame them, not fully. For I was off in my attic then, and I am not quite right yet. Doubt I ever will be, this side of heaven.”

  Mariah shook her head. “Your brother may have planned to take legal steps to make himself heir, but I don’t believe he actually did so. Perhaps he only told you that to keep you from leaving Honora House. If you thought you had nowhere else to go . . .” Mariah let the words drift away. She rose, lifting a forefinger. “Wait one moment.”

  She dashed upstairs and returned with Fran’s journal. She found the section she had been reading the night before. “Listen to what my aunt wrote.”

  Mariah paused to catch her breath, then read, “ ‘I suppose Hugh could go through lengthy and expensive legal proceedings to have the man declared incompetent, but I can find no evidence of Frederick and Honora having done this. Too public, I suppose. Too scandalous. Too risky. Besides, why should they bother? For while searching through my husband’s desk, I did find one legal document. A certificate declaring Percival Prin-Hallsey dead, having been missing for more than seven years. Frederick and Honora never acknowledged his return. Instead they hid the inconvenient truth humanely away in order to retain their home and control of the purse strings.’ ”

  Mariah took a deep breath and continued, “ ‘For here is the truth. Windrush Court does not legally belong to Hugh Prin-Hallsey. Yes, he is Frederick’s heir, but Frederick never legally owned it either. It rightfully belongs to Frederick’s elder brother. Not dead as assumed and hoped and legally declared. But secretly living in the poorhouse across the road.’ ”

  Mariah glanced up from the journal. Martin and Dixon sat, stunned and frowning.

  Finally, Martin asked, “But . . . if you are a Prin-Hallsey, how did you come by the name Prince?”

  The captain intertwined his long fingers. “My parents wanted me to be a gentleman, you see. When I was seventeen, they sent me to Oxford to be educated. But that was not the life I wanted for myself. So I ran off and joined up as a volunteer seaman. I could not sign on under my real name, could I? Not with my father likely to track me down and haul me home before the ship had even left port.”

  Here, the captain chuckled dryly. “Even had I not wished to evade my father, I would have been loath to use my real name. A high-falutin’ name like Percival Prin-Hallsey would have earned me endless taunts from rough-and-rowdy seamen and extra lashes from the bosun. No thank you, sir.”

  Martin, brows high, nodded his agreement.

  “Three years later, a captain appointed me midshipman,” Captain Prince continued. “I think he knew who I really was, but he never said a word. Perhaps he had a disapproving father as well, I don’t know. Three or four years after that, I passed the lieutenant’s examination. I liked everything about the navy, and the navy liked me.”

  He raised his glass in salute, and Martin raised a teacup in reply.

  “I had no plans to stay away forever, and no plans to go home. I was living day by day, promotion by promotion, and loving every minute of it.”

  Mariah said, “My aunt mentioned finding a portrait of a man in his late twenties, and guessed it might be you. But how could that be, if you left home at seventeen?”

  Captain Prince looked up, searching his memory. “When I was about eight and twenty, I learned my father had died. That old captain slipped me a newspaper clipping and granted me leave. While I never got on with my father, I loved my mother and decided I would go to her, give what comfort I could, and assure her I was well. It was then that I saw the Merryweather twins in the village. I had heard of their father – he was a notorious drunkard. But his daughters had become young women while I was away. I did not know their Christian names at the time, but one does not forget a pair of such lovely girls.”

  Mariah bit her lip. He was right. One did not forget them.

  The captain inhaled deeply before continuing. “I arrived at Windrush Court to find my mother in poor health, but she was happy and relieved to see me. I was glad I went when I did, for she did not live many years longer. My brother was away in London at the time, and I never saw him the entire fortnight I was home. My mother wrote to him, but he did not deem my return worth missing the social season. While I was home, my mother commissioned an artist to paint my portrait. Dreadful man wanted me to sit still for hours on end, and I could not abide it. In the end, he drew my face in detail and said he would finish the rest later from sketches and memory. Probably turned out badly, for all I know.”

  “I wonder where it is now,” Mariah murmured, hoping Hugh had not sold it.

  “I don’t know.” The man shrugged. “I returned to sea and progressed in my career. Finally, I received my first commission as captain. I found Amy just a few days before I sailed away, expecting great things. . . .”

  Percival Prin-Hallsey’s eyes filled anew, and Mariah reached out and laid a hand on his arm.

  “What will you do now, Captain?”

  He shook his head, apparently bewildered.

  Martin said, “We will help you gain your permanent release from the poorhouse. You are neither dead nor incompetent. Windrush Court is rightfully yours.”

  “Captain Bryant has another few weeks left in his lease,” Mariah added. “But I don’t think he will mind relinquishing it. To think of all you have been through, all the hardships. I am certain he will be as glad as we all would be to see you back where you belong.”

  Captain Prince shook his head. “The hardships I experienced were nothing to Miss Amy’s. Nothing!”

  Mariah patted his arm. “But she had your friendship, Captain, don’t forget. And a beloved sister by her side.”

  He wiped his eyes. “I never understood how she managed it.” Slowly he shook his head. “To remain so full of faith and joy despite it all.”

  Mariah remembered the single knot and the line of red wool stretching over the rise and out of sight.

  And understood.

  Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.

  – Jane Austen

  chapter 39

  After Captain Prince left, returning to the poorhouse to offer Agnes Merryweather what comfort he could, Mariah sat down and flipped through the neglected pages of Lydia Sorrow. She felt as though the tale had been written – and lived – by another person. One whom she remembered, was vaguely acquainted with, but whose pain and regret and desire for revenge were no longer her own.

  Lizzy knocked on the open sitting-room door, her young face alight with barely contained excitement.

  “Mr. Hart wants me to meet his mother. May I go, miss? May I?”

  Mariah’s chest rose and fell in waves of wistful happiness. “Of course you may.”

  “William says I may bring George as chaperone, so Mrs. Pitt is not tempted to send him away while I’m gone. He knows how I worry about him. Is that not good news?”

  “Very good news.”

  Mariah offered to lend a larger valise, and gave Lizzy two of her own gowns for the trip. The girl was delighted and embraced Mariah warmly. “Oh, thank you, miss. I shouldn’t want to embarrass William.”

  “You would never do that. He thinks the world of you.”

  Dimples appeared on Lizzy’s flushed cheeks. “Yes, he does.”

  This is how love should be, Mariah thought. Two honest people, forthright in their intentions, loving and protecting one another.

  Thinking of Lizzy and Mr. Hart, as well as Miss Amy and Captain Prince, and even Dixon and her suitors, Mariah rose and stood before the hearth, where a fire had been laid against the misty chill of a damp September day. One by one, she began feeding pages of Lydia Sorrow to the flames. She would start afresh. She no longer desired revenge or to be avenged. She desired only forgi
veness. And, God willing, a second chance.

  “Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery,” she remembered hearing a friend of a friend say, and found it resonated with her own soul.

  She would write an uplifting tale of mercy and true love, she decided. One with a happy ending.

  Well . . . she could dream, couldn’t she?

  Leaving the gatehouse a short while later, Mariah came across Captain Bryant and Martin sitting on the garden bench. She overheard Martin relating the tale of Captain Prince’s origins and identity.

  “Can you believe it? Now we know why the authorities could not trace the missing captain to a Prince family. So you see, we were both right.”

  Captain Bryant nodded, but Mariah thought he looked rather dazed by the news.

  “Where is he now?” he asked.

  “Gone back to the poorhouse to comfort Miss Amy’s sister, he said.”

  Martin saw her and quickly rose. Captain Bryant followed suit.

  “Miss Mariah here can tell you the rest,” Martin said abruptly and disappeared into the house. It was done without subtlety, but even so, she appreciated Martin’s thoughtfulness. She longed to speak to Captain Bryant alone.

  He was regarding her warily, she realized, and no wonder after their last meeting.

  She stepped nearer and began, “I am in receipt of your letter and your . . . tale.”

  He nodded, eyes cautious.

  “And I think it fair to say you could easily have a second career in . . . shipbuilding.” She smiled mischievously, and his reserve dissolved into a welcoming grin.

  “Just as you might have a second career as an opera singer,” he teased.

  She held his gaze as their smiles faded into something else, something deeper and more serious. “I forgive you,” she whispered. “Will you forgive me?”

  He reached over and took her hand in his. “It is done.”

  Her pulse quickened at his touch. With his free hand, he gestured toward the bench, and she sat down.

  “I had hoped to find you earlier to tell you about Captain Prince,” she said. “But with Miss Amy’s death and everything . . .” She let her words trail off and instead asked, “Are you not glad now Hugh refused to sell you Windrush Court?”

  Sitting beside her, Captain Bryant looked skyward and inhaled deeply. He made no answer.

  Mariah’s heart began beating dully. “He did refuse, did he not?”

  “Initially, yes.”

  She studied his flat expression, realization dawning. “Oh no. . . .”

  He sighed. “Oh yes. I have already given Hugh Prin-Hallsey a sizeable sum in good faith on the place. Now only to find that not one brick was his to sell, or mine to buy.”

  Mariah shook her head, mind whirling. “Then we shall have to find him and demand repayment.”

  He gave her a wry look. “Mariah. What do you suppose is the likelihood of my getting one farthing back from Hugh Prin-Hallsey?”

  She stared into his bleak brown eyes but found she could utter no false assurances. “Was it a great deal of money?” she asked softly.

  Not meeting her gaze, he nodded.

  “Oh, Captain, I am so sorry. You have lost your fortune.”

  Slowly he shook his head. Looking into her eyes, he squeezed her hand. “Here is my fortune.”

  But Mariah’s guilt kept her from fully hearing and acknowledging his words. “I feel so responsible. Hugh was a sort of cousin, after all.”

  One side of his mouth rose. “How you do take on the weight of the world, Mariah. Whereas I feel as if I have finally shed an anchor.” He exhaled and straightened. “I have some money left but will need to find employment soon. Seek another commission.”

  “But, Matthew – the bloodshed, the nightmares . . .”

  “I know. And now with Napoleon exiled, there are ten captains vying for every ship the navy will maintain. Still, there are other options. The West Africa Squadron is working to suppress the Atlantic slave trade, but that is a thankless task, I understand. The squadron’s few frigates are mere water spiders in a vast ocean, and the slavers continue to sail around undeterred. Yet, I might go, if not for you, Mariah.”

  If not for me . . . ? Mariah found she could hardly breathe.

  When she made no reply, he added, “That small fleet has insufficient quarters for a captain, let alone a captain’s . . .” He hesitated. “For a woman.”

  Mariah nodded her vague understanding, but her thoughts were spinning and her heart beating so loudly she was not certain she heard correctly.

  Matthew continued, “I visited an old friend of mine recently, a Captain McCulloch. He is spearheading the creation of a new fleet he calls the Coast Blockade Service. I believe he would give me a post. It would not pay very handsomely, nor be impressive or romantic.”

  “Is that so important?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “In novels, the heroes are always captains or lords, are they not?”

  He attempted a grin to lighten the moment, but she regarded him soberly.

  “A woman who truly loved you would not care if you were a baker, a chandler, or a captain. I should not.”

  He stilled, looked at her fondly, and stroked her cheek – a cheek suddenly very warm as she realized what she had said.

  “My sister said something very like that not long ago,” Matthew whispered. “And predicted I would find a woman who thought and felt as you do.” He leaned near, his whispered words a caress on her cheek. “Meddlesome creature was right again.”

  He leaned nearer yet, until Mariah knew – hoped – he would kiss her.

  Someone behind them cleared his throat. Matthew squeezed his eyes closed in exasperation and somehow managed to bite his tongue. Now what? He turned and saw Martin standing on the other side of the gate, gesturing him over.

  “Captain. Sorry to disturb. I tried to wait until you two were finished . . . em, talking. But it’s urgent.”

  Martin waved a piece of paper, as though Matthew should know what it signified. Sighing, Matthew smiled apologetically at Mariah and gave her hand a parting squeeze. Then he rose and strode over to the gate.

  Martin spoke in an agitated whisper through the bars. “We’ve got it. We know where they sent Maggie.” He unfolded the torn piece of paper.

  “How?” Matthew asked. “Did Mrs. Pitt relent?”

  “No, sir. It was Captain Prince. Prin-Hallsey. What have you. He snuck into the office and went through her files. Found an entry in her registry, explaining the transfer, or falsifying excuses, if you ask me. Young George just brought over this note.” He thrust the paper through the bars into Matthew’s hand. “She sent her to Westhill House.”

  “Westhill House?” Matthew read the scrawl to confirm the news. “I know the place. It is the workhouse in Highworth.”

  He turned to share the news with Mariah but saw that she had already retreated into the house, allowing the two men to speak in private.

  Martin touched his arm through the bars. “I wasn’t certain I should tell Miss Mariah or Miss Susan. Didn’t want to get their hopes up, in case Maggie has been apprenticed to one of the mills.” He winced. “I figured you might know what to do. Besides,” he added sheepishly, “you are the only one of us who has a horse.”

  Matthew nodded, thoughts racing.

  Martin continued, “I could go myself, but I doubt they would release a little girl to the likes of me. Don’t know that they would to you either, no offense, but we’ve got to try.” His voice thickened. “I cannot abide the thought of the poor little mite alone amongst strangers. She no doubt thinks we have all forgotten her.”

  Matthew placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I shall go straight away and see what can be done.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you were right not to tell the ladies – not yet. We don’t want to arouse their hopes only to dash them. But I leave that decision to you.” He hesitated. “Martin, do me a favor. Tell Miss Aubrey I have had to leave . . . on business. But be sure and tell her that we will f
inish our conversation as soon as I return. Understood?”

  Martin nodded. “Right. Gone on business. Will finish chat forthwith.”

  What has happened? Why all the secrecy? Mariah tried to concentrate on peeling apples, and instead nicked her finger. Fiddle!

  Martin came into the kitchen a few minutes later. “There you are, Miss Mariah. Captain Bryant charged me to tell you something.”

  “Oh?” she said casually, trying to mask her emotions.

  “He’s gone off on business and will speak to you when he returns.”

  “What manner of business?” she asked, her voice quavering.

  “I . . . I couldn’t rightly say, miss. But Captain Bryant is gone to Highworth, he has – that much I can tell you.”

  Highworth. That was where the Forsythes had their country estate. Where Mr. Forsythe lived, even though Isabella spent much of her time with an aunt in London. Mariah wondered if Martin had brought a message from Miss Forsythe. That would explain the secrecy. But surely Matthew had not gone to see Isabella or her father. Not after the conversation the two of them had just had. True, Matthew had not asked for her hand, but he had hinted at a future together. Or had she imagined the implications of his words, because she so desired them to exist? Just as I did with Mr. Crawford?

  Doubts and sinking dread filled her, even as she told herself she was being foolish. “I see,” she said, feeling as if she did indeed see all too well.

  An hour later, Mariah went outside to dump the apple peels. She saw Susan Dixon and Albert Phelps standing in the gatehouse lane. Hat in his hands, Mr. Phelps hung his head as he listened to whatever Dixon was telling him. From the look of his slumped shoulders and crestfallen expression, Mariah guessed she was turning down his offer of marriage.

  Poor man, Mariah thought, heart squeezing in empathy. She went inside and busied herself in the drawing room to give the two privacy.

  When the back door opened several minutes later, Mariah stepped tentatively into the kitchen to see how Dixon was feeling. She thought her old friend looked drawn and weary.