The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

“You are a man who likes a bargain, I see. And I will agree to the lesser amount on one condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “That I am allowed to return, allowed access to the place even while you are in residence.”

  Matthew felt his brows rise.

  “I will let it furnished and staffed as you requested,” Prin-Hallsey explained. “But since the death of my father’s second wife, I have had insufficient time to sort through many old family papers and ledgers and the like.”

  Matthew frowned. “You might box them up and take them with you. I shall have no need of such. You are leaving your steward to oversee the accounts.”

  “Yes, but . . . well, it is more than papers. There are several family heirlooms and things of that nature that have become, well, misplaced. The woman had a different idea of organization than did I, or my mother before her. I need to find . . . several items. I am not sure how long it will require, nor how exactly I will split my time between the task and my . . . responsibilities . . . in town.”

  Matthew studied the man. He knew there was more going on than he said, but had no interest in prying. He did not like the idea of paying rent to the owner and then having the man come and go as he pleased as if he still owned the place. But the truth was he did.

  “I cannot stop you from coming,” Matthew allowed. “It is your house, after all.”

  Prin-Hallsey casually crossed his legs. “True. But if you are agreeable to the terms, the place is yours for six months beginning April first.”

  Matthew said, “I don’t suppose you would consider selling outright?”

  Prin-Hallsey hesitated, twisting his lips to one side. “Afraid I can’t, old boy. Not yet. Perhaps in future, if you are still interested, I might be able to part with her.”

  “Is the estate entailed?”

  Hugh stroked his chin. “No. But it has been in the family for years.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it.” Hugh rose, signaling the end of the meeting. “At all events, the steward, Hammersmith, will manage things for you and see to troublesome tenants, useless servants, and the like. He is a man who gets things done.”

  “Here he comes,” Mariah whispered to herself, standing at the kitchen window with mounting dread. She realized she had unconsciously been awaiting the steward’s call ever since Hugh Prin-Hallsey mentioned his intention to “redress” her situation.

  She watched Mr. Hammersmith as he tottered up the drive, dressed in black, his round upper body and thin stockinged legs giving him the look of a stuffed goose on peg legs. One of his arms was crooked behind his back, the other bore a green ledger. Mariah’s heartbeat began to quicken in time with the man’s choppy, brisk steps.

  When she opened the door to him, he lifted his black hat in the faintest of acknowledgements before replacing it on thin fawn-colored hair.

  “Miss Aubrey. How do you do. I am Hammersmith, steward to – ”

  “Yes, I know who you are. Won’t you come in, Mr. Hammersmith?”

  “Thank you, no. This won’t take a minute.” He adjusted his spectacles but did not open the thick ledger. Mariah wondered if he carried it merely as a sort of shield. “I am here to inform you of an increase in your rent to twenty pounds per quarter, effective immediately. You have until the thirtieth of April to pay or vacate the premises.”

  Twenty by the thirtieth? Impossible. That was only six weeks away. It had been nearly a month since Henry took the manuscript, and she had yet to hear one word from him. Had the publisher even looked at the book yet? What else could she sell? She thought of her aunt’s chest. But surely if Aunt Fran had possessed anything of value, she would not have left it in the gatehouse attic.

  How could she raise the funds?

  Mariah was on her feet, pacing. So when a knock sounded on the kitchen door, she answered it herself.

  Her aunt’s man, Jeremiah Martin, stood there, letter in hand, looking decidedly uncomfortable. There would be no further summons to Francesca’s bedside. What could he want?

  “Hello, Martin. May I help you?”

  He breathed in slowly. “Unlikely, I fear.”

  There was a quiet dignity about him, Mariah noticed, though he could not be an educated man.

  “Did you need something?”

  “I don’t need much, Miss Aubrey, you will find. And I am useful in my way.”

  “I am sorry. I don’t – ”

  “Your aunt has left me to you.”

  Confusion buzzed in Mariah’s brain. “Excuse me?”

  The man sighed and handed her the folded paper in his hand. “I trust this will explain her wishes.”

  Frowning, Mariah unfolded the sheet and saw that it was a brief letter signed by her aunt. The words seemed out of focus, so little sense did they make.

  Mariah,

  I leave you my manservant, Jeremiah Martin. He has been with me for more than a decade, the only servant I brought with me when I remarried, for reasons which would take longer to write down than I have left.

  Hugh has never liked him and will no doubt sack him before the last shovel of dirt fills my grave. So, I give him to you. I have left him a bit of money, and he shall work for you in return, for as long as he is able, or until Hugh runs you off the place. Insufferable boy. Never liked me, of course. And never approved of my letting you have the gatehouse. Did it to irk him, you know. Well, until we meet again on the other side of that river.

  Francesca Prin-Hallsey

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s all right, miss. Never cared for chatty girls. Look, I know it’s irregular. So either tell me where to sleep or send me on my way. Makes no nevermind to me.”

  Dixon appeared at Mariah’s elbow and asked in a terse whisper, “What does he want?”

  Wordlessly, she handed the letter to her. While Dixon read it, Mariah’s eyes were drawn to the man’s hunched shoulder and hook. It was difficult to look, but almost impossible to look away.

  “Saints preserve us,” Dixon muttered. “We don’t want him here.”

  Mariah forced a smile. “Would you excuse us one moment, Martin?”

  “Aye.”

  Mariah closed the door gently and turned to Dixon, a finger to her lips.

  Dixon whispered, “The old lady must have lost her mind when she lost her health. Him, here, with the two of us? In this little place?”

  “You read the letter; he’ll have no place to go.”

  “I could tell him where to – ”

  “Dixon, that is not very kind in you.”

  “Have you smelt the man, Mariah?”

  “Perhaps we can devise a way to . . . tactfully mention it. Consider all the work he could do around the place.”

  “With that hook? I don’t see how. He didn’t even help us move in here.”

  “It will be different now, if he lives with us. I am certain there must be some tasks he can do to ease your heavy load. You do too much.”

  “You’re the one who does more than you should. Fine young lady like you . . .”

  Mariah huffed a laugh. “Hardly.” She said more soberly, “Remember that stormy night you were out and a strange man came to the door? I was frightened to be home alone. Having a man about the place might be wise in many respects.”

  “But this man is far stranger than the last.”

  Mariah held her gaze. “Looks can be deceiving, Dixon, as we both know.”

  Dixon hesitated, then threw up her hands. “Where would he sleep?”

  “The pantry?”

  “The smell of him, the stable would better suit.”

  In the end, they laid the options before Martin. He decided that as long as the weather was fine, he would make his bed in the stable loft, which was dry and private and where he might come and go as he pleased without disturbing the ladies. When the weather turned cold in the late autumn, he would resign himself to a cot in the narrow pantry, but he obviously did not look upon the prospect with relish.

  “I
suppose I have been spoilt all these years with your aunt. Become accustomed to having a room of my own. With not only a bed, but a desk and chair besides.”

  Mariah bit her lip. “I don’t think any of us should become accustomed to our quarters here. Martin, I think it only fair to tell you, before you throw in your lot with us, that there is every likelihood we shall not be here much longer. Mr. Hammersmith has stipulated a rent beyond my ability to pay. Dixon and I are contemplating options, but I don’t know how likely we are to succeed.”

  “Do you really think Mr. Prin-Hallsey would put us out?” Dixon asked.

  Martin nodded. “I would not put it past him.”

  “I imagine he would have done so before now had my aunt not been here to sway him.”

  Dixon grimaced. “What can we do?”

  Mariah straightened her shoulders. “I shall have to think of some way to endear myself to Hugh. Charm him into allowing a dear cousin to stay.”

  Dixon gave her a sidelong glance. “Careful, Miss Mariah.”

  “Don’t worry, Dixon. I am not about to attempt anything foolish.”

  Martin cleared his throat. “I would not mention my being here, miss,” he said. “It will not aid your cause.”

  The footman led Mariah into the Windrush Court library, announced her, and took his leave.

  Hugh Prin-Hallsey, seated behind a large carved desk, rose. “Ah. Miss Aubrey. What a surprise.”

  “Is it? I thought you might expect me.”

  “Not at all. Why, I barely see you, so rarely do you venture from your seclusion en pénitence.” He gestured toward one of the chairs before the desk.

  She sat and adjusted the skirt of her favorite gown of rose-pink, a color she had been told flattered her complexion. She had made a point not to wear the black. Her straw bonnet with a matching ribbon was tied beneath her chin.

  She clasped damp hands in her lap. “I hoped to ask you for a bit of grace in the new rent your steward proposed. It is all such a surprise, when my aunt had so generously allowed me to live in the gatehouse gratis.”

  “Your aunt is dead, Miss Aubrey. And this is not a charitable institution.”

  She stared, stunned at his coldness.

  He pinned her with a steely gaze. “Can you think of one reason I should forgo a reasonable income on my own property?”

  She swallowed.

  “You are no relation of mine,” he continued. “I obeyed my father’s wishes in providing for your aunt after his death, though it galled me to do so. Why do you think I stayed away in London so much of the time? I did not like the woman in my house. In my mother’s rooms. But now she is gone and I am rid of any obligation to her. Extending charity to her wayward niece was never part of the bargain.”

  Mariah was horrified to find her eyes filling. “I see.” She bit the inside of her lip to keep the tears in check.

  He glanced at her, hesitated, then stared off in thought, his dark eyes speculative, and perhaps, softening. He spread his hands expansively. “If it were only up to me, Miss Aubrey, I might lower your rent, or at least allow an extension. But you see, the new tenant is a hard, unbending man. He shall be in charge for the next six months, though Hammersmith will no doubt administrate the new master’s wishes. You understand, I trust? It is quite out of my hands.”

  Oh, to be in England now that April’s there.

  – Robert Browning

  chapter 6

  As the April sun dispersed the morning mist, Captain Matthew Bryant strode across the grounds of Windrush Court, feeling like a man surveying his own land. He wore a new olive frock coat, striped waistcoat, cravat, and beaver top hat. And if the looking glass he’d consulted that morning could be trusted, he appeared every inch the gentleman.

  A budding tremble of hope, of eagerness and pride, was growing within him. He could see himself here. Could imagine himself master of a grand estate like this. He wondered what his parents would say to find him living in such a place. What she would say. Would her certain surprise be coupled with admiration, with the acknowledgement that she had known he would succeed all along? Would she join him in exalting over the naysayers of his worth and suitability, her own father chief among them?

  Ahead of him, Matthew saw a field of bluebells like a purple-blue sea. How lovely. He had spent so much of his life aboard ships that such sights still awed him.

  A woman knelt there among the flowers. With her blue dress, he had almost missed her. Her dark hair was pinned in a thick coil at the back of her head. Her long fair neck curved gracefully as she bent over . . . what? . . . a letter? A book?

  So still was she that she looked like a figure in a painting, a landscape of vivid green stems reaching up, her blue frock surrounded by bright bluebells nearly to her waist, her head bowed like the head of a lovely flower.

  He stared, moved by the scene. Was she praying? Weeping? He stepped forward and a twig snapped. Her head turned at the interruption, mouth ajar.

  Her profile was delicate, feminine – upturned nose, high cheekbones – and somehow familiar. Who was she? Prin-Hallsey had not mentioned a wife or sister.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, feeling sheepish to be caught spying. “I did not intend to trespass on your solitude.” He walked closer with hand extended to help her up, but she ignored it and rose to her feet unaided.

  She gave her dress an ineffectual swipe with one hand. In her other, she held a folded letter. Her bearing, her gown, bespoke the lady, though her hands, he noticed, were less than pristine. Her complexion was fair. Her features finely formed. When she looked up at him, her eyes were large, amber brown, and fringed with dark lashes. He had spent so many years on ships filled with men that the sight of a beautiful woman still awed him as well.

  Then he recognized her with a start. The girl from the gatehouse, who had assisted him in recapturing his horse. He was embarrassed to recall his ineffectual behavior that night, his display of timidity. But he was also grateful for her help all over again.

  “It is you,” he began foolishly. “I almost did not recognize you. Without the cap, I mean, and . . . well, you were dressed so . . . That is, I thought you were . . .”

  “A maidservant?” she said easily.

  He winced. “Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You came upon me in my jam-making attire.” She smiled. “Yet I recognize you out of uniform, Captain Bryant.”

  What a charming smile she had. Such perfect teeth. He smiled in return, gratified she had remembered his name.

  “And how is your horse?” she asked. “No worse for the experience, I hope?”

  “No, he seems fine. Thanks to you.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “And I am glad to happen upon you, so I might thank you again.” He gave her a deep bow, and she curtsied in return.

  “I was happy to help,” she said, all warmth and friendliness. “I have always had a tender spot in my heart for horses.”

  “Have you? I own I am still growing accustomed to the creatures.”

  Her head tilted to one side. “You did not ride a great deal in your youth?”

  “Not at all. I was sent to naval academy as a boy and have spent the greatest portion of my life aboard ships since.”

  “Ah.” She nodded her understanding. “May I ask what brings you to Windrush Court? I had not expected to see you again.”

  “Then you don’t know. I am letting the place for six months with an eye toward owning it one day.”

  Her smile fell. “You, sir? You are the new master?”

  Her tone rankled. Did she, like so many others, believe navy men had no right to an estate like this? “I suppose I am. What about that, madam, strikes you as so farfetched?”

  An angry flush marred her fair cheeks. “I would not have thought it of you.”

  “Why not?”

  She stammered. “Because I thought you . . . I thought you a . . .”

  His anger kindled. “Unworthy? Poor? A nobody?�
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  “No. I thought you a gentleman.” Her dark eyes flashed. “I see I was wrong.”

  She turned and ran headlong across the field, unconcerned for the flowers she was crushing beneath her slippers. Yet, why did he feel as though he were the one who had just crushed her? Had she some designs on Windrush Court herself ? Why was she so angry?

  Matthew sought out Hugh Prin-Hallsey inside the house and found him shooting a solitary game of billiards.

  “The girl in the gatehouse,” Matthew began, still irritated. “Who is she?” He realized he had once again failed to ask her name. What an idiot he was. Especially where women were concerned.

  Prin-Hallsey took his shot, then straightened to his full height, cue stick cradled in both hands.

  “The lovely Miss Mariah Aubrey. The soon-to-depart tenant of the gatehouse, as I believe I mentioned. Some niece of my late father’s wife, by her first marriage. The woman let Miss Aubrey have the old place for nothing, though she had no business doing so.”

  “Had she not some right, as your stepmother?”

  Hugh grimaced. “You risk my sword, Captain, saying that. She was no mother to me. She managed to bewitch my father and seduce him into matrimony late in his life. Baleful woman. Never understood what the old man saw to admire in her.”

  Matthew was surprised Hugh did not plan to honor the woman’s wishes in regard to her niece. “But she was his wife.”

  “Yes, and had her widow’s jointure to prove it.”

  Matthew pondered this. “Is there some reason Miss Aubrey would not want me here? We crossed paths a short while ago, and she seemed quite vexed with me for no reason I could fathom.”

  Hugh gave him a wry glance. “Told her you were the new master, did you?”

  “I may have done. She asked what brought me here, after all.”

  Hugh nodded. “I recently gave her notice of increased rent.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “I may have let on it was your doing. Sorry to relegate blame, old boy, but you did say you wanted the gatehouse for a friend, if it could be had. And I didn’t think you would mind the misapprehension. You two are strangers, after all, whereas I cannot abide having a beautiful girl cross with me.”