The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 35

  “Everything all right?” Mariah asked softly.

  Miss Dixon’s eyes were damp. “Hated to do it.” She sniffed. “But it had to be done.”

  Mariah nodded. “How did he take it?”

  Dixon paused to consider. “Better than I feared. He harbors no grudge. Says he’s already known the ‘bliss of wedlock’ and wishes me happy.”

  Mariah had underestimated the man. She squeezed Dixon’s hand and left her. She hoped her friend would not regret her decision, for as far as Mariah knew, Martin had never offered marriage. Might there forever be two spinsters in the gatehouse?

  On Martin’s birthday a few days later, the three of them sat at the kitchen table together, a paper-wrapped parcel between them. Mariah and Dixon watched nervously as Martin peeled back the paper with both hand and hook. Mariah hoped he wouldn’t be offended by Dixon’s gift.

  Dixon said, “You need not use it if you don’t want to. I thought you might like to wear it to church, perhaps, like a Sunday suit of clothes.”

  He glanced up from his unwrapping. “A new neckcloth, is it?”

  Dixon shook her head, looking quite anxious.

  He opened the box and stared. Mariah craned her neck to see as well. For she had only heard about, but not yet seen, the object Dixon had ordered all the way from London.

  Within a layer of tissue lay an artificial hand, with a leather socket and tubular frame to attach it beneath the elbow.

  “I am not saying you need it,” Dixon stressed. “Honestly, I don’t mind the hook at all. I am accustomed to it. I just thought you might like it. If you don’t, you needn’t wear it. You can . . . hang your hat on it or something.”

  The hand, fingers gently curved inward, wore a black leather glove, with the glove’s twin loose in the box beside it, so that both hands would match in appearance. Curious, Martin peeled off the glove. The palm and fingers were realistically shaped, though obviously wrought of metal.

  “Where did you get this?” Martin asked, eyes still on the hand, expression inscrutable.

  Dixon swallowed, clearly concerned she had caused offense. “From a blacksmith whose forefathers were armorers to knights.”

  Her large eyes were wide and vulnerable as she awaited his reaction.

  Finally, Martin laid his hand over hers and regarded her fondly. “Thank you, Susan. It is the most unusual gift I have ever received. And the most thoughtful.”

  Mariah was touched, amused, and simultaneously saddened by the sweet scene. How she wished Maggie were there to see it. How she wished Matthew were there as well.

  But Captain Bryant had been gone for three days without a single word. She told herself it was foolish to worry about Isabella Forsythe. But what else could be keeping him away? Merciful Father, help me not to fear. I know you have forgiven me and Matthew has forgiven me. Help me to forgive myself. I am certain there must be a reasonable explanation for his absence. Please grant me peace until he returns or I shall go mad!

  Mr. Hart, Lizzy, and George were gone as well. Gone to the coast to meet Mr. Hart’s mother. She wished them well.

  And all the while she prayed for Maggie, wherever she was.

  My friends are my estate.

  – Emily Dickinson

  chapter 40

  They had planned to wait until Captain Bryant’s return, thinking his authority might sway Mrs. Pitt more than the small influence any of them might wield. But when a week had passed with no word from him, they decided to wait no longer to speak with her about Captain Prince.

  Considering Mrs. Pitt’s dislike of Mariah, Jeremiah Martin strapped on his new hand and commissioned himself to confront the poorhouse matron. Dixon, Mariah noticed, watched him go with possessive pride gleaming in her blue eyes.

  He returned three quarters of an hour later, alone, his face flushed from the exertion of the walk, or the encounter, or both.

  “Well?” Dixon asked as Martin joined the two anxious ladies at the kitchen table.

  “I shall tell you everything,” Martin said, and delivered a detailed account worthy of an Aubrey theatrical.

  “I walked in and announced in my most officious manner, ‘I am Jeremiah Martin, secretary to the late Francesca Prin-Hallsey.’ ”

  Secretary? Mariah thought. She supposed manservant would not sound as official.

  Martin continued, “I said, ‘It has come to my attention that you are holding one Percival Prin-Hallsey, known as Captain Prince, who is heir and rightful master of Windrush Court. I am here to demand his immediate release.’ ”

  “You didn’t. . . .” Dixon breathed.

  Mariah was impressed by his courage. Or audacity.

  Martin nodded. “She merely stared at me, so I said, ‘I can produce all the proof you – or the undersheriff – might like. Including records of the annual sum paid you to keep the man against his will.’

  “ ‘Against his will?’ the imperious woman said. ‘The man you refer to comes and goes as he pleases and always has. If he is who you say he is, why has he not bothered to take himself across the road and demand his rightful place, as you call it, before now?’

  “It was a fair question. I explained that Frederick Prin-Hallsey had told his brother he’d been declared legally incompetent to inherit, so he thought he had nowhere else to go.

  “Mrs. Pitt insisted that he is incompetent, but I said, ‘I think not. Confused and forgetful, perhaps, but no worse than the average man his age. At all events, there is no record of him being declared anything but dead, and that charge, madam, we shall have no trouble refuting. I can involve the undersheriff and solicitors, if you prefer . . . ?’

  “She glared but did not challenge me. Instead she said, ‘If he leaves here, he will not be welcomed back should he – or anyone else – change his mind. Do I make myself clear? Even when you realize he is not fit to be master of anything, and in need of a place to live, he will not be allowed to return. Not as long as I am matron.’

  “It gave me pause, I own. For the captain is not the man he once was. But I held my ground, thinking if he needed care or even supervision, I, or another caretaker, might be hired to do so, allowing him to live in the comfort of his family home.”

  “Very true,” Dixon said, nodding her approval.

  “I likely should not have said what I said next. But hearing her deride noble Captain Prince so coldly, her wafer-thin lip curled, I could not help myself. I said, ‘Perhaps, madam, you shall not be matron here very much longer, should the board of guardians, or the newspapers, hear of your part in this.’ ”

  Mariah gasped.

  “You didn’t. . . .” Dixon breathed again.

  He shrugged. “She did not seem particularly troubled by it. She said, ‘I had no part in this, as you say. Any arrangements made between the Prin-Hallsey family and Honora House were made with my late husband. I was not privy to the details and only kept the man as instructed.’ ”

  “I wonder if it was wise to threaten that woman,” Dixon said, “considering her power. Considering what she did to poor little Maggie.” Her chin trembled.

  Martin reached over and covered her hand with his own. There had been quite a lot of that of late, Mariah realized. She wondered if Martin had finally proposed.

  Forcing her gaze away from the clasped hands, Mariah asked, “Did she agree to release him?”

  “I did not ask.” Martin’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I told her we would be back in the morning to collect him.”

  “Oh dear,” Dixon said. “What if he disappears before then? Is sent away, like Maggie?”

  It was a possibility none of them wished to contemplate.

  Early the next morning, Mariah accompanied Martin back to Honora House to find Captain Prince. Before they even reached the poorhouse, they saw him sitting outside on the bench with Agnes Merryweather. Relief filled Mariah at the sight. Clearly, he was no longer being confined to his room. Nor had he been sent away. It was an auspicious beginning.

  But as they talked with h
im, the man was less than enthusiastic about quitting the place. He twisted his hands and said, “Do you think, Mr. Martin, it is wise for me to leave? I have been here so long. It is really all I know. The only home I remember clearly, save for those years with the Malagasy.”

  “I shall help you, Captain,” Martin offered. “Be your right hand, if you like, until you are settled. There’s naught to fear.”

  “But I know nothing of running an estate.”

  “There is a steward, a Mr. Hammersmith, to tend to that, sir.”

  The captain rubbed the scar at his temple. “I don’t know. . . .”

  Agnes, sitting ramrod straight, turned her stern gaze upon him. “Oh come, Percy,” she all but scolded. “You were master and commander of the Largos and a crew of hundreds. What is one house and a gaggle of servants to a great man like you?”

  In the end, Agnes and Martin were able to convince Captain Prince to at least walk over and see Windrush Court. While not ready to commit to leaving Honora House for good, he did agree to a brief call, if Miss Merryweather would go with him. Agnes said she would be honored to accompany the captain on his first visit to Windrush Court in nearly twenty years.

  They informed the matron that they were only going for a stroll, not leaving per se, fearing the woman might do away with all of Captain Prince’s possessions before they returned. Mrs. Pitt seethed but said nothing as they took their leave.

  Agnes stepped out of Honora House dressed in hat and gloves for the outing. And though it was a mild mid-September day, she wore a bright red muffler around her neck – the one Amy had made for her long ago. Seeing it, Mariah’s heart squeezed.

  The captain offered his arm, but Agnes hesitated. She said briskly, “I am not an invalid, Captain, but thank you just the same.”

  They walked away from the poorhouse and across the road. Captain Prince eyed the gate as they headed toward the front door of the gatehouse. “Why can we not go through the gate, Miss Aubrey, instead of tramping through your house?”

  “The gate has been locked for years, Captain,” she said.

  He lifted his chin. “Ah. Let me guess, ever since the old gatekeeper saw me on the roof. Probably reported it to my brother.”

  “Is that why?” Martin asked.

  “I doubt such a thing could be a coincidence. Don’t you?”

  Martin nodded. “Indeed.”

  Passing through the gatehouse, they walked up the lane and along the curved drive to Windrush Court. Agnes, Mariah saw, was not frail as her sister had been, and kept up with the captain’s smart stride with apparent ease.

  “There it is, Agnes,” Captain Prince said, gesturing toward the great house. “What do you think?”

  “I have seen it before, a long time ago. But it is much grander than I recall.”

  “Do you think so? It is smaller than I recall.” He winked at her, Mariah noticed, and Agnes’s lip tightened.

  Mariah feared Agnes might be offended, but when they reached the front steps of Windrush Court, Captain Prince again offered his arm, and this time Agnes took it without comment.

  Dixon, Martin, and Mariah followed them as far as the portico. But before they could enter the house, hooves sounded in the distance. Mariah turned to see a pair of riders on horseback trotting in from the main gate, followed by a horse and carriage. She steeled herself. Captain Bryant had returned at last. Whom had he brought with him? Surely not Isabella Forsythe. Had his parents finally agreed to come? Or was he bringing another party of guests?

  But as the figures drew closer, Mariah’s chest tightened and her mouth grew slack.

  Dixon appeared at her elbow. “Are you all right, Mariah?”

  Mariah lifted her hand and pointed. Dixon followed her gaze and gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she reached out and gripped Martin’s arm with her free hand.

  “What is it?” he asked, warmth and tender concern in his expression as his eyes roamed Susan Dixon’s face.

  She, too, pointed.

  But Martin did not share their shocked silence. Instead he raised his hands – both of them – in triumph. He exclaimed, “It’s Maggie! He’s found her!” And jogged down the stairs.

  For there, coming up the drive, were Captain Bryant on Storm, and little Maggie riding sidesaddle on a bay that reminded Mariah of her own beloved horse back home.

  “Maggie!” Dixon ran down the stairs and across the verge so fast, she passed Martin. Seeing her, the little girl beamed and all but leapt off the horse and into Susan Dixon’s waiting arms.

  Martin reached them, lifting a hand to pat Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie leaned toward him and wrapped her arms around Martin’s neck even as Dixon held her, joining the three in a tangle of limbs and love.

  Tears filled Mariah’s eyes at the sight. Thank you, she breathed.

  When Dixon set Maggie down, the little girl took Martin’s new hand in hers, regarding it with smiles of surprise and delight.

  Martin teased, “I asked for Miss Dixon’s hand, and instead she gave me this one.”

  Dixon shook her head, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Oh, go on with you.”

  Mariah could feel Captain Bryant’s eyes on her but, doubts and insecurities rising, avoided his gaze. She was afraid of what she might see in his dear brown eyes. Would there be cool distance there, where once had been warm intimacy? She had experienced such a startling reversal once before. But Captain Bryant was not James Crawford, she reminded herself.

  The carriage pulled up, and Lizzy, George, and Mr. Hart waved to her from its window. How surprising that they should return at the same time as Captain Bryant.

  As the three stepped down from the carriage, Mariah walked over and hugged Lizzy and asked about their trip. From Lizzy’s blushing, happy face, it appeared the visit to Mrs. Hart had gone very well, a fact Mr. Hart was quick to confirm.

  “Mother adores her.”

  “And I her.” Lizzy glowed. “She’s such a dear.”

  Captain Bryant walked over to join them, but Mariah excused herself to welcome Maggie home. She squeezed the little girl’s hand and smiled into her cherubic face, hoping the few weeks of loneliness and deprivation would not leave their mark.

  Behind Maggie, the horse she had ridden bent its head to nibble at the lawn. Startled, Mariah stared. The bay mare, her lithe chestnut body marked with black mane, tail, ears, and socks, was not only similar to Mariah’s horse, it was her horse. Mariah’s own beloved Lady. How in the world . . . ? Lady, released from her rider, ambled across the drive in search of taller grass or freedom.

  Mariah followed her, calling softly and stretching out her hand.

  The mare’s ears tipped back, cautious, wary. Had she forgotten Mariah’s voice after a year’s absence? But then the graceful neck turned and the big long-lashed eyes regarded her. She snorted and sniffed as Mariah walked slowly forward, speaking in quiet, gentle tones. “Hello, my dear girl. How I have missed you. Will you come to me?”

  Lady whinnied and tossed her head. She took a few steps toward Mariah, and Mariah’s heart lifted in satisfaction. When the velvety whiskered muzzle whispered into her palm, Mariah smiled. With her other hand, she began stroking the sleek reddish-brown neck.

  Matthew appeared on the other side of the horse, his eyes bright yet watchful, studying her reaction.

  Mariah was glad to have Lady as a buffer between them. “How did you come by her?”

  “Maggie, or your horse?” He gave a small grin.

  “Both. I am overcome with curiosity.”

  “Martin discovered Maggie had been sent to the workhouse in Highworth.”

  “How did he learn that?”

  Captain Bryant stroked the mare’s forelock. “Captain Prince helped himself to Mrs. Pitt’s records, I understand. We thought it best not to tell you and Miss Dixon in case nothing could be done.”

  She was too relieved to have Maggie back to argue this point. “They just gave her to you?”

  “No, not initially. But my sister’s
husband, you see, is curate in Highworth. He is friendly with several members of that institution’s board of governors. He arranged Maggie’s release. Still, he warned it would take time. Meanwhile, I visited my parents and wrote to Hart, thinking if Miss Barnes joined us, Maggie might feel more at ease.”

  Their returning together had been no accident. “Very wise. But what must your parents have thought of all that coming and going?”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “It is ironic. Nothing I have done or accomplished in my career has impressed my father. But for some reason, my mission to find and restore one little girl has.” His voice thickened. “Even told me he was proud of me.”

  Mariah pressed a hand to her chest, wishing she might lay a hand on his arm instead. “Oh, Matthew. How wonderful.”

  Holding her gaze, he stepped around the horse. “As happy as I was to help Maggie, and of course Martin and Miss Dixon, I confess I did it for you.”

  Mariah drew in a painful breath.

  He continued. “While I was waiting for Hart and Miss Barnes to join me, I traveled to Milton to see if I might purchase your horse.”

  “My father sold her to you?”

  “Gave her.”

  Joy and incredulity warred within her. “I cannot believe it. Father agreed?”

  “Yes, he gave his permission.”

  Permission. The word reminded her of Captain Bryant’s long quest. “Did you . . . happen to call on the Forsythes while you were in Highworth?”

  Tilting his head, he regarded her cautiously. “No, why should I?” He grimaced. “Did not Martin give you my message?”

  “Yes, but only that you were gone on some manner of business to Highworth. Where the Forsythes’ estate lies.”

  “Mariah, you did not think . . . ?”

  “I tried not to. I was even successful at it. Most of the time.”

  He took Mariah’s hand in both of his. “I went to Highworth only to find and return Maggie. The only lady’s father I consulted was your own. His, the only permission I sought.” He lifted her hand and pressed warm lips to her fingers. “And not only permission to restore Lady to you.”