The Girl in the Gatehouse Read online

  Vaguely now, Mariah heard voices from below. Dixon and Mr. Phelps, discussing where the lilies he had divided and culled from his own plot should be planted in front of the gatehouse. Mariah felt like those lilies, a perennial cut from its roots, displaced. Transplanted in slipshod fashion. She wondered if she would have time to recover from the first upheaval before being yanked out again.

  Mr. Hammersmith was not a man to be put off for long. Nor, did it seem, was Captain Bryant. And the thirtieth of April was looming ever closer on her calendar. Why did Henry not write? She supposed he had gone home to Attwood Park for the Easter holidays. That might have delayed him. Or perhaps the publisher had rejected her novel outright.

  Mariah heard a distant door close and knew Dixon had come back inside. The two of them had begun reading aloud and editing her second manuscript in the evenings, in no doubt naïve anticipation of the publisher wanting it as well. If he did not, how else could she raise the money? And if she could not, where would they go?

  As if the place called her name, she lifted her eyes, up past the trees greening with spring leaves, to that dreaded place of grey stone, with its flat roof guarded by an iron railing and spiked with chimneys. The poorhouse. Would she and Dixon end up there yet?

  Suddenly, atop the poorhouse roof, motion caught her eye. Mariah leaned forward until her nose touched the cool, wavy glass. What in the world? A man was walking on the roof. His motions were not the regular, focused actions of a workman, but rather erratic and fast-paced as he . . . marched? . . . from one side of the roof to the other.

  “What is he doing?” she breathed.

  “If you mean Martin.” Dixon strode in with laundered bedclothes. “Nothing useful. The man had the nerve to complain about my fish stew.”

  “Come here, Dixon,” Mariah urged. “Do you see that man?”

  “Where?”

  She pointed. “There on the poorhouse roof.”

  “Good heavens! There is a man up there.” Dixon squinted. “I can’t make him out very well. . . .”

  “What is he doing, do you think? Taking exercise?”

  “Exercise?” Dixon snorted. “On the roof ? More likely he’s off in his attic. Men!” she grumbled.

  Something in Dixon’s tone snagged Mariah’s attention. She studied her friend’s agitated face and asked, “And how is Mr. Phelps today?”

  “A bit too friendly, if you take my meaning.”

  But Mariah did not miss the blush in her thin cheeks. They both stared out at the distant man once more.

  Dixon sighed. “What is it about springtime that makes men crazy?”

  With the help of her brother, [Frances Burney’s]

  Evelina was published anonymously [in] 1778.

  The book was an instant success.

  – Valerie Patten, Chawton House Library

  chapter 8

  Matthew spent Easter with his sister and her husband. While there, he was aware of how near he was to a certain family’s estate on the outskirts of Highworth but did not pay a call. He was not yet in position to launch his campaign. Instead, he returned and settled in for his first full week as master of Windrush Court.

  He was surprised to find the girl in the gatehouse often on his mind. Understanding now why she had been cross, he wished to apologize to her, hoped he might clear up the misunderstanding that had caused her to direct her ire at him.

  That evening, as Matthew walked toward the gatehouse to call on Miss Aubrey, he heard voices coming from inside. Voices in earnest conversation. And there – a sharp exclamation. An argument? He did not alter his course but kept to the path. He had every right to be there, he told himself. In fact, he was paying handsomely for the privilege.

  “You are very much like your aunt, child,” said the gravelly voice of an older woman. “If you wore a wig, and had a fine tapered waist, I should almost conceit that I saw her again. Is it true that the ranting, raving captain is here again, and some other young scapegrace?”

  A clear, youthful voice replied, “The captain is here, ma’am, with a Mr. Montgomery.”

  Matthew recoiled. The captain? The “ranting, raving captain”? Certainly they did not speak of him. And who was Montgomery?

  The older woman continued, “In my days, if a young woman was seen to be speaking to a man, unless he happened to be her father, her brother, or at least her cousin, he was set down as her betrothed admirer, and it generally turned out that he became her husband. But now ’tis higgledy-piggledy, fiddling, acting, a parcel of fellows kept in the house of a young woman, for no earthly purpose that I see, but to make her the talk and the scandal of the whole neighborhood.”

  Matthew listened, increasingly disconcerted. A “parcel of fellows kept in the house” ? Had Miss Aubrey so many male callers? What sort of a woman was she? Matthew had thought Miss Aubrey admirable, if not traditionally ladylike. He hoped his earlier assessment had been correct.

  He had overheard one or two disgruntled comments from the steward, Hammersmith, and a few suggestive hints from Prin-Hallsey. But he had chalked them up to vicious gossip. He knew too well how cruel people could be, how quick to swallow any tale that hinted at a woman’s loss of virtue. His own dear sister’s misfortunes had taught him that.

  The women in the gatehouse were speaking of someone else, he decided, and resolutely walked away.

  Matthew determined to try again the next day. The rain, which had started as a gentle drizzle and no deterrent to a man used to standing on deck in all sorts of weather, was now pelting down with soaking regularity. Matthew was tempted to turn around, but since he had spent the better part of an hour working up his courage and allowing the fastidious valet to fuss with his cravat, he thought it best to make his apologies and have done.

  As he walked down the ever-narrowing lane through the wood, he heard the reverberating clunk of wood upon wood and wondered who would be out working in this weather. He had yet to master the names and faces of all the staff, but he believed a carpenter lived in one of the cottages not far from the gatehouse. It was likely him.

  But when he approached the back garden of the gatehouse, he was stunned to see none other than Miss Aubrey, bent at the waist, gripping an axe that was wedged into a chunk of wood, refusing to either cut through or come loose. What on earth? If there was a “parcel of fellows” in the house, why were none of them assisting her?

  Her head was bare, and she wore the oilcloth coat he remembered from the night of their first meeting. Beneath it, her blue frock hem was quickly becoming a muddy mess.

  “Miss Aubrey!”

  She glanced up, and he saw tears on her cheeks before she could avert her face or wipe them away. Or was it only the rain?

  She stiffened. Then, with a fierce expression, she turned back to her task. She lifted the impaled chunk of wood high over her head and brought it down on the chopping block with a solid thunk. Still the wood did not yield.

  “Fiddle!” she half yelled, half sobbed.

  Clearly more was wrong than one stubborn piece of wood. She made to toss the axe down, but he rushed forward and grasped it, fearing it might strike her foot. He tried to take it from her, but she held fast.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  “No, thank you,” she clipped between clenched teeth.

  “Then at least wait and have your man do it.”

  “There is only Martin. He can’t chop wood with one hand. Besides, he has gone to market. We are out of coal and I haven’t money for more. I can’t ask Mr. Strong to come out in this, when he has done so much for us already. The fires are nearly out and Dixon was chilled, so I’ve sent her to bed. I don’t want her to catch cold or suffer another bout of the ague. . . .”

  While her words accelerated and her voice rose, he gently pried the axe from her fingers and set it down. He firmly gripped both of her shoulders and spoke earnestly to her. He wondered at his boldness in touching her, and knew he would not have done so were she not so distressed. He felt the urge to comfort her, a
nd hoped she would take no offense.

  “Miss Aubrey, first allow me to say, I am not responsible for raising your rent. I believe Mr. Prin-Hallsey wished to transfer blame, not realizing I would care, or that we had even met. But I do care. And I regret you should think ill of me after your kindness with my horse. Do you believe me?”

  She nodded, blinked rain and tears from her eyes. “I would believe that of Hugh, yes.”

  “I hope we shall be friends, Miss Aubrey. And as a token of my apology and friendship, I ask you to please go inside and allow me to chop this wood.”

  “But, I could not. It would not be – ”

  “Yes it would,” he insisted. “I am not used to idleness and need the exercise. Please.”

  A rivulet of rain coursed down her forehead, crossed the bridge between her eyebrows, and ran onto her upturned nose.

  She blinked again. “Very well, Captain. But just this once. Thank you.”

  He picked up the axe, but she turned back.

  “And thank you for explaining. I should have known.”

  Inside the kitchen, Mariah hung up the coat and found a towel for her hair. She told herself she should have realized that Hugh, as owner, remained in charge of tenants. But she had no personal experience with such arrangements. And Hugh had been so convincing. Now she saw why Fran had called him a wicked boy.

  From the window, Mariah watched Captain Bryant. He laid his coat over a barrel just inside the stable door. In waistcoat and shirtsleeves he lifted the axe and brought it down on the block, chopping the dense piece with ease. Again and again he set up a log, split it, and then tossed the pieces onto the pile at the back door. The rain had lessened now, but still the drizzle curled his brown wavy hair and dampened his shirt sleeves until they clung to his shoulders and biceps and forearms. She glimpsed fair skin and the swell of muscle beneath his increasingly translucent shirt.

  Very masculine, this Captain Bryant, she thought. She admired his profile, the aquiline nose, strong cheekbones and chin. And she admitted to herself that she found him attractive, especially now that he was not the villain of this chapter in her life.

  Mariah, she silently warned. Had she not promised herself she was finished with men and their untrustworthy ways? Even as she thought this, she knew the promise was a poor shield against the truth. For she felt certain no honorable man would ever love her now. She would be wise to steel her heart.

  And avert her eyes.

  At the sight of Henry walking up the path to the gatehouse the following Saturday, Mariah’s palms began to perspire. Why had he not written? Were the tidings so bad he wished to break the news in person, and be there to comfort her in its wake?

  She forced herself to wait until he knocked, then took a deep breath and opened the door. “Henry, hello. Do come in.”

  He smiled but looked tired. She took his hat and indicated the best chair.

  He sat down and she positioned herself on the settee near him, clasping her hands nervously in her lap.

  “I shall not keep you in suspense,” he began. “Mr. Crosby wishes to publish your novel.”

  She was afraid to believe it. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. He will agree to either a flat payment for the copyright, or a commission at author’s risk. As neither of us has the money to cover the printing upfront, I chose the former terms. I hope I did right.”

  Relief washed over her. “You did.” She could hardly take it in. Her book would be in print for all of England to see – or at least a few hundred souls willing to take a chance on some unknown author. Joy surged within Mariah, but it was dampened by the reserve on Henry’s face.

  “What is it?”

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers interlaced. “Mr. Crosby wants to meet you in person.”

  “What?”

  “I am afraid so, Rye.”

  Her mind whirled. “But why? Why should he care? I am not the first authoress, nor author for that matter, to write anonymously or under a nom de plume.”

  “True. Though he says he would prefer to know all of his writers’ identities even if readers do not. Apparently there has been public outcry against a particular male author, who has taken to writing under pseudonyms to pass off inferior work. And, as so many female authors seem to write moralizing, didactic tales these days, he feels an obligation to confirm their identities. He wants no surprises. Doesn’t want to discover his latest bestseller was penned within the walls of Newgate, or the Magdalene.”

  “But this is terrible!” Mariah groaned. “I don’t want anyone poking about my affairs. That is the very reason I wished to keep my identity secret.”

  “Just come down to Oxford and meet him. He will see you are a lady of education and refinement and all will be well. It is a formality only.”

  “I have no wish to go to Oxford.”

  “Have you no wish to be published either?”

  Mariah stared at him. “He will insist upon it?”

  “Yes, he was quite adamant. Though, perhaps . . .”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Crosby offered to call on you if that would be more convenient. Perhaps you would prefer that?”

  Mariah hesitated. Did she? On one hand, she would much rather meet him within the security of her private retreat, away from prying eyes. How she dreaded the thought of traveling by coach, or even post, when who knew whom one’s fellow passengers might be. But to bring Mr. Crosby here, to her place of exile? Would it not in its very unusualness – a young unmarried woman living separately from her family – raise questions Mariah longed to avoid? And, worse yet, once the man had visited the gatehouse, what was to keep him from letting it slip where Lady A lived and in what humble circumstances? What if word were to reach her parents of not only Henry’s hand in her fledgling writing career, but of the endeavor itself, of which her father would disapprove nearly as heartily as her initial disgrace?

  Considering her finances, she could honestly say it would be a hardship for her to make the trip. But if meeting him here in the gatehouse would open the door to publication and payment? She would have to do it. She would meet Mr. Crosby here, try her best to assure him she was a woman of quality, though she could hardly pretend to perfection, and hope he would be satisfied without requiring a detailed telling of her past. Perhaps she would even have the nerve to show him her second manuscript. She and Dixon were still reading aloud the most recent draft and polishing it as they went.

  “Very well. If he is willing to come here.”

  “He has said as much. He is eager to meet you.”

  “When would he call?” she asked.

  Henry squeezed her hand. “Saturday week.”

  Might the man bring payment then? Or send it later, assuming she passed muster? She had only a fortnight to pay the twenty pounds for rent. She dearly hoped the payment would be enough, and that it would arrive in time.

  Before he took his leave, Henry handed her a letter. “From Julia. I confided that I would be seeing you.”

  “Oh . . . !” Mariah breathed. “She should not have risked doing so.”

  Unfolding the single page, Mariah’s eyes skittered to the signature at the bottom, and there her attention was snagged by a postscript added in her mother’s hand.

  How relieved I was to hear you are well. My prayers are with you.

  Mariah’s heart lifted to see it. Then she read her sister’s enthusiastic note.

  Dear Mariah,

  How cruel this separation is! I cannot tell you how I miss you and our bedtime talks. I know Papa will be cross with me if he learns I wrote to you, but I could not rest until I shared my fondest secret with my dearest sister.

  I am in love! Yes! I have met the most handsome, kind, and attentive young man. It is my hope that he shall very soon ask Papa for my hand. That is, once he rouses his courage – you know how hard it is to ask our father for anything! I suppose I should not say it, but I am still vexed. They will not tell me exactly what it is you have supposedly do
ne, but knowing you as I do, I cannot imagine it is anything so bad. Not bad enough to justify sending you away . . . .

  Oh, but it is, Mariah thought sadly, feeling the pain and mortification of her wrongdoing anew. How sorry she was that her sister had to suffer for it too.

  Walter Scott has no business to write novels,

  especially good ones. It is not fair.

  He has Fame and Profit enough as a Poet.

  – Jane Austen, 1814

  chapter 9

  The next Saturday, Mariah slipped into a long-sleeved day dress of ivory lawn with a high belt of lavender ribbon. She pinned her hair simply and neatly, hoping to appear ladylike. As the time of the meeting approached, she descended to the drawing room and sat down, trying not to fidget.

  Dixon stood watching at the window. When the clock struck the hour, she whispered, “He’s here!”

  Mariah rose from her chair on rubbery legs and smoothed her skirt as Dixon opened the front door.

  Mr. Crosby was a gentleman of middling height, but his thin frame made him appear taller. He wore his mink brown hair combed fashionably forward, silky fringes blending with dark brows. His light brown eyes were the largest she had ever seen on a fully grown man. His nose was thin and prominent and his cheekbones sharply evident beneath his pale skin. Still, the overall effect was pleasing. Mariah decided he had the appearance of a well-dressed ascetic. She felt quite voluptuous by contrast.

  “A. K. Crosby, ma’am,” he said and bowed. “Have I the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Lady A?”

  “You have, sir.” She curtsied, but not too low, suddenly aware of the modest display of décolleté her simple gown allowed. She surely did not appear a starving artist, at least not compared to him. But his fine clothes – crisp cravat, waistcoat, and coat of sable brown with velvet collar – were not a poor man’s garb.