The Girl in the Gatehouse Page 4

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Her heart leapt to her throat.

  Who in the world would be out in this? Whoever it was could not bear good tidings. Lord, let Dixon be well. Please, not a relapse. And let nothing have happened to Henry. . . .

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “All right! All right!”

  Wiping her hands on her stained apron, Mariah huffed down the stairs and across the drawing room, carrying the candle lamp as she went. She hesitated before opening the front door. The Strongs and Mr. Phelps always came to the kitchen door. And Henry would not call so late. She hesitated all the more because she was alone and it was all but dark outside. Was it really wise to open her door to some unknown caller?

  Another round of pounding roused her ire, and she unlocked and opened the door a few inches, saying as tartly as Dixon might, “You need not break the door.”

  She froze. Her pulse pounded in her ears as loudly as the knocking had been. Her mind shouted, Danger! A man stood in cocked hat and greatcoat. Tall, imposing, grim. A stranger. A strange man at her door at night? She fought the urge to slam and lock the door. How she wished Dixon would return.

  She lifted the lamp higher to see his face. Saw a grimace of pain there . . . a gash on his cheek. She opened the door a few inches more.

  “Yes?” she asked, her voice sounding too timid. She drew her shoulders back, determined not to show fear. He need not know she was alone.

  He grimaced again, from pain and perhaps to clear the rain from his eyes. “Is your master at home?”

  She hesitated as reactions – annoyance, offense, alarm – wrestled for preeminence. He presumed she was a servant. Casting a swift glance down at herself, she realized there was little else he could think. She was wearing a mobcap, a dingy puce frock she wore to help Dixon with messy chores, and a soiled apron besides.

  But as much as she wanted to sharply retort that she had no master and wasn’t a servant, she was too fearful of letting him know there was no man in the house, or anyone else for that matter.

  “What do you need?” she asked instead.

  “My horse has thrown me. He is running loose in the meadow beyond that copse there, and I cannot catch him. I am afraid he will injure himself.”

  Mariah nodded. A call for help. She had never been able to resist one.

  “One moment.”

  She did not invite him inside to wait. Rather, she quickly closed the door and pulled on an oilcloth coat from the wall pegs beside it. She ran to the kitchen and stuffed several items into her pockets. Then, pausing to light a tin-and-glass lantern, she jogged back to the front door. She let herself out and brushed past him before he could voice the protest already forming on his frowning face. His hat, drawn down low against the rain, obscured his features. He appeared to be about thirty years old, but beyond that, she formed no distinct impression.

  Lantern high, she hurried though the pouring rain toward the copse. How she wished she had her own horse with her. But even had her father allowed it, she could never have afforded the mare’s upkeep.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that the man hobbled after her with a jerky limp.

  He muttered, “Heaven knows where he’s got to by now.”

  He was right. A horse spooked by lightning could run headlong and be halfway across the county by now. Or could fall into some unseen burrow and break his leg. They needed to hurry.

  “Do you live nearby?” she asked, wondering if the horse might have taken himself back to the warm security of his stable once divested of its rider. Just because the man was a stranger to her did not mean he did not live in the area. She rarely ventured beyond the walled estate and, except when Dixon was ill, avoided going into the village altogether.

  “No. I was on my way to Bourton when the, er, mishap occurred.”

  Pushing through the narrow copse of trees, Mariah spotted the white horse at the edge of the meadow, one rein apparently ensnared by low branches or brambles. Before she could thank providence for their good fortune, thunder shot the sky. The spooked creature reared up, pulling the rein loose, and bolted across the open meadow, then stopped again a short distance away.

  “Follow me,” she said quietly. She crept forward, hand outstretched, palm up. The white horse swung its head toward them, hesitated, but did not flee. They were able to draw within twenty feet or so of the frightened animal.

  “Call to him gently,” she urged.

  He hesitated. “What do I say?”

  “Just call his name.”

  When he said nothing, she glanced at him. The man looked surprisingly nervous. Was he actually afraid of his own horse?

  “I don’t recall his name,” he said, sheepish. “I have only just acquired him.”

  Sighing, Mariah handed him the lantern and approached the horse gingerly, reaching into her pocket as she walked.

  He called after her in a loud whisper, “Have you brought a rope?”

  “No, have you?” she shot back. It was his horse after all.

  She had brought two things far better. Sugar cubes and a carrot. With slow steps, soothing words, and the lure of an extended carrot, the horse allowed her near. She deftly took hold of one loose rein while his whiskered muzzle shuddered and sniffed the carrot. She let him eat the tip before taking the second rein and allowing him to perceive he had been caught. If anything, the horse seemed relieved to be captive once more. Realizing it might be difficult for him to eat the whole carrot with his bit in place, she offered him a sugar cube as reward instead.

  Thunder rumbled once more, and the horse shied, but Mariah kept hold of him, murmuring soothing words. “Shh . . . it is all right. You are safe now.”

  Beside her, the man said, “I have just recalled his name. It is Storm.”

  How fitting, Mariah thought.

  Together they led the horse across the meadow and up the road to the gatehouse, the rain lessening as they went. How Mariah wished she might unlock the gate and usher the weary horse into the stable. But she doubted that this qualified as a “dire emergency.”

  “We should look him over by lamplight. Make certain he is not injured.”

  The man nodded.

  She tied the horse to the gate, then held the lamp near as she ran ink-stained fingers over the horse’s pure white legs and checked his hooves. Leaning over, she happened to see that the stranger’s white pantaloons – beneath his coat and above his boots – were stained with mud and blood.

  “He seems fine,” Mariah said. “Which is more than I can say for you. How is the leg? Shall I ride in for the apothecary?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. It is merely a scratch.”

  She doubted it but had no desire to go riding into the village at night. And certainly not astride a stranger’s horse, soaked to the skin. She didn’t want to add fodder to the gossip mill.

  “The rain has let up,” she pointed out. “Still, you might let him rest awhile before continuing on to Bourton.”

  The front door opened, and Dixon appeared in the threshold holding a candle, which guttered in the wet wind.

  “There you are, miss. I was frantic to find the house empty. Oh.” She paused, eyes widening. “Who is this, pray?”

  Mariah followed Dixon’s startled gaze to the tall man on the other side of the horse.

  “Oh. This is . . . Actually, I have no idea.”

  “Forgive me.” The man swept off his high, narrow hat, which she only now realized was the cocked hat of a naval officer, and gave a brief bow, wavy dark hair falling across his brow. “Captain Matthew Bryant. At your service. And in your debt.”

  Dixon’s thin eyebrows rose.

  Mariah explained, “I have merely helped Captain Bryant find his horse, which ran off in the storm.”

  She turned back to the man, noticing his handsome face, with a straight nose and defined cheekbones. “Would you care to come inside, Captain, and warm yourself by the fire? We haven’t much to offer you by way of refreshment, I am afraid,
but – ”

  Dixon frowned. “There is plenty of fish stew.”

  To Mariah’s relief, he quickly declined. “Thank you, but I shan’t trespass on your time any longer. I cannot imagine Bourton is too much farther?”

  “No. Less than a mile down this road.”

  “Excellent. Again, thank you for your help. Perhaps I shall be able to return the kindness one day.”

  Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.

  – Matthew Arnold

  chapter 5

  When another knock shook the gatehouse the next morning, Mariah’s heart gave a little leap. Had Captain Bryant returned, to ask her name and thank her once again?

  Foolish girl, she admonished herself. Laying aside her quill, she rose from the writing table in the sitting room and hurried downstairs with none of the trepidation of the night before.

  But it was not the front door that rattled but the rear kitchen door. And it was not Captain Bryant standing on her doorstep. It was Martin, her aunt’s hook-handed manservant.

  His expression was grim indeed. “She has asked for you again, Miss Aubrey. We’d best not tarry.”

  Mariah wrapped a light shawl around her shoulders against the damp March breeze and followed him from the gatehouse. Though she was nearly as tall as he was, she had difficulty keeping up with his rapid pace up the drive.

  When Mariah entered Mrs. Prin-Hallsey’s crowded bedchamber, she was obliged to skirt a wheeled invalid chair she had not noticed before. Stepping to the foot of the bed, she saw that her aunt’s skin was waxy thin and her eyes vaguely focused, until they lighted on Mariah. Mrs. Prin-Hallsey gestured to Miss Jones, who quickly rose and helped position her farther up on the pillows. The wig had at last been replaced by an ornamental cap. From beneath it, a few strands of brown and grey showed.

  “Mariah.” Her voice was weak.

  Mariah stepped closer. “Mrs. Prin-Hallsey.”

  She shook her head. “Not that name.”

  “Francesca.”

  Another shake. “The name you used to call me. As a girl.”

  Tears bit Mariah’s eyes and thickened her throat. “Aunt Fran.”

  The woman closed her eyes as though to relish the sound, and so Mariah repeated it, provoking a hint of a smile on her aunt’s face.

  Fran Prin-Hallsey accepted the drink Miss Jones brought to her lips, then allowed the maid to dab her mouth with a handkerchief before looking once more at Mariah. “Remember those poems and little plays you wrote and performed at Christmas and Epiphany?”

  A ray of pleasure warmed Mariah’s heart. “Yes, but I am surprised you do.”

  “You always were a creative girl. Writing. Playacting.” Another shadow of a smile crossed her face. “I like a bit of drama myself, you know.”

  She crooked a finger, and Mariah obediently drew near the bed.

  “Closer.”

  She leaned over her aunt, nearly close enough to whisper in her ear. Then her aunt snaked up a trembling hand and dragged the key from her bodice. Miss Jones leaned over the other side of the bed and helped draw it over her head. Raising both hands slowly as though made of granite, Fran Prin-Hallsey reached the old chain up and over Mariah’s bent head. Her arms shook from the effort.

  Under her aunt’s watchful eye, Mariah tucked the key into her own bodice, glad she had not worn a high-necked frock that day.

  A sudden scratching sound from the door pulled Mariah’s head around. Hugh Prin-Hallsey stood in the threshold, chin high, eyes alert.

  “What has she given you? Nothing of my mother’s, I trust?”

  Mariah swallowed. “No, sir.”

  “Do not fret, Hugh,” Francesca said languidly. “It is only a chain given me by my first husband. Its value is purely sentimental. Mariah admired it as a girl, and I thought she might like to have it.”

  It was lies. The lot of it. But Mariah did not refute a word.

  Hugh held her gaze, then turned on his heel and disappeared from view.

  Her aunt whispered, “He thinks I have a treasure hidden away somewhere.”

  Mariah chuckled. “Why would he think that?”

  “I hinted at that very thing.” Francesca’s eyes glinted. “Did it to torment him.”

  “Have you a treasure?” Mariah asked.

  Her aunt Fran lifted a faint shrug. “Haven’t we all?”

  Two days later, Jack Strong brought the news that Mrs. Prin-Hallsey had died in the night. Mariah was surprised at the cloud of loss and grief that hovered over her. She was further surprised when Hugh Prin-Hallsey appeared at the gatehouse a few days after the funeral, a black band on his sleeve.

  “I know. Hypocritical, no doubt. But society expects it.” He shrugged. “She was not a bad old girl, just had no place marrying my father. Can’t say I am sorry she is gone, but I did not wish her dead. Well, I may have wished it, but rest assured I did nothing to hasten it.”

  “How . . . kind,” Mariah said, making little effort to conceal her sarcasm.

  “And here you are in black, Miss Aubrey. A horrid old gown, I must say. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I quite agree. But it is all I have for mourning.”

  “Well, do stay far from the great house in those weeds. I will be showing it to potential tenants and I don’t want them seeing you and believing the place haunted.”

  His words held no rancor, and she found the man oddly amusing in spite of herself.

  His face creased into a smile. “Unless you think that would give the place a certain gothic appeal?”

  She was about to return the smile when his words registered. “Tenants? You are not selling Windrush Court?”

  “Selling, no. At least not yet. But with the London townhouse, I have little use for this big place. And a great need for income.”

  “I see.”

  “Speaking of which. My steward tells me you pay not a farthing for the gatehouse. A situation I mean to redress. Nothing personal, my dear Miss Aubrey, you understand. I would say you are an ornament about the place and allow you to stay as you are, but not with black upon your person.” He gave a theatrical shiver.

  “I could change,” she offered meekly.

  One dark brow rose. “Could you, Miss Aubrey? Miss Mariah Aubrey of Milton? For I was speaking of more than the gown.”

  And then it was Mariah’s turn to shiver.

  Captain Matthew Bryant followed a man in livery across the entry hall of Windrush Court, his boot steps sending echoing reports through the high-ceilinged space. Might it all really be his one day?

  He had first gone to Wesley Park, beyond Bourton, the day after he was thrown from his horse. But the elder Wesley had refused to sell or even to let his empty house to a naval captain, muttering complaints about how the navy “allowed men of low birth unnatural distinction.” Matthew still bristled at the thought.

  But from what he had heard, Hugh Prin-Hallsey held no such compunction. He had let it be known he was looking to let his ancestral home. Rumor was he needed the money. And money was one thing Matthew had – naval captain or not. Matthew had already met with Prin-Hallsey’s steward. He hoped today’s meeting would finalize the bargain.

  Ahead of him, the footman opened the door, and Matthew stepped into an impressive paneled library.

  “Captain Bryant,” the footman announced and withdrew.

  Behind the ornate desk sat a gentleman perhaps six or seven years older than himself, with hair nearly black and features showing the first signs of dissipation.

  The gentleman rose. “Hugh Prin-Hallsey. Welcome, Captain.” The two shook hands, and Prin-Hallsey swept his gaze over Matthew’s new civilian clothes, a Carrick coat with several shoulder capes and a simply tied cravat. “Out of uniform already?”

  “Yes. Regulations – I am no longer on official duty nor on my way home. In fact, I have been on shore more than a fortnight.”

  Prin-Hallsey gestured toward a chair and reclaimed his own seat. “Discharged?”

  “Paid off and wit
hout a ship at present. So, until another commission is offered me, it is time I find my land legs again.”

  “Have you no family?”

  “I do. My mother and father live in Swindon.” Matthew anticipated seeing his parents with a mixture of fondness and dread. He would wait until he had found a house before he visited again.

  “But you are a bachelor, I take it?”

  Matthew nodded. But hopefully not for long.

  “What use has one man for such a large place?” Prin-Hallsey asked, steepling his fingers.

  Matthew frowned. “What need have you in knowing my motivations, sir?”

  The man spread his hands. “Motivations, none. Intentions, plenty. Cannot have strangers dancing upon the pianoforte or using the family china for target practice, can we?”

  Irritation surged. He was a captain in the Royal Navy. Not some pillaging pirate. Biting back a sarcastic retort, Matthew said evenly, “My intentions are this. I hope my parents may join me for a time – my mother is not in good health. Eventually, I also hope to host a house party with friends from London. Perfectly respectable.”

  “I will hold you responsible for any damage to the property.”

  “Understood. I also plan to invite a fellow officer to lodge here for the summer. He is scraping by on half pay and is injured as well.”

  Prin-Hallsey leaned back in his chair. “Charitable fellow, ey?”

  “Not especially. He is no stranger, after all. And, now I think on it, my former lieutenant might feel more comfortable under his own roof. Are any estate cottages available?”

  “No. But there is an old gatehouse we no longer use as an entrance. It is occupied at present, but I have reason to believe it will soon be vacant.”

  “How soon?”

  “Very.”

  Matthew thought of the girl who had helped him recapture his horse. “Well, no hurry. I shall invite him to join me in the house for now. Certainly large enough for the two of us. It is a bit farther from the coast than I would like, but I negotiated a satisfactory sum with your steward. The terms are agreeable?”