The Girl in the Gatehouse (30 page)
“But . . . ?”
“I know I called once before and you did not recall any particular item your aunt might have left here. But you haven’t the devious mind of your aunt. Nor of Hugh Prin-Hallsey. I think if I might look about myself I am more likely to find what I am searching for.”
He regarded her, eyebrows high, smile nearly convincing. Still she hesitated.
He leaned toward her. “You haven’t anything to hide, I trust.”
She clenched one hand in a tight fist, fingernails biting into her flesh. “Not specifically, but as a gentlewoman, I have natural reservations about a man pawing through my private things.”
His dark eyes glittered. “That’s right. You are a woman with a secretive and colorful past.”
She felt her cheeks burn. “Perhaps you had better leave, Mr. Prin-Hallsey.”
He studied her flushing countenance with apparent pleasure. “In good time, Mariah. After all, this gatehouse is my property. Is it not?”
He was watching her carefully, and Mariah wondered if he expected an answer to his rhetorical question.
He surveyed the room, then said, “I believe a top-to-bottom search is in order – starting with the attic in the turret.”
Mariah guessed that the young footman had finally confessed to carrying a chest up to the gatehouse attic last fall. She wondered if he had been forced or bribed to divulge Mrs. Prin-Hallsey’s secret mission.
Hugh strode toward the stairs, not awaiting her reply.
Mariah swung around with a pleading look to Dixon. A look that said,
What do we do now? How can we stop him?
They heard his Hessians echoing across the floor above them and then creaking up the attic stairs.
Her love letters! Early drafts of her novels. The promise she made to her aunt . . . These thoughts stirred a surge of panic in her bosom. Her bosom . . . where the key still lay secure. Would he smash open the chest?
A few minutes later, she had her answer. Hugh clomped back down the stairs, looking piqued. With apparent effort, he restrained his frustration and demanded calmly, “I require two things from you, madam. A candle. And a key.”
Glancing through the gatehouse windows to discover if Miss Aubrey was within, Matthew was astounded to see Hugh Prin-Hallsey looming ominously over her. He hurriedly let himself inside in time to hear the man say, “Shall you give me the key, or shall I wrench it from your neck?”
“What is going on here?” Matthew demanded.
Both heads snapped his way.
“Are you all right, Miss Aubrey?”
“I . . .”
“Miss Aubrey is perfectly well,” Prin-Hallsey said. “Merely confused. She has something of mine and refuses to relinquish it.”
Miss Aubrey lifted her chin. “I have nothing of yours, sir.”
“How do you know? Have you looked inside the chest?”
“Have you?”
“An omission I am seeking to correct this very moment.”
Miss Aubrey addressed her next words to Matthew. “Captain, my aunt, Mrs. Prin-Hallsey” – Hugh flinched and his jaw tightened, but Miss Aubrey continued undeterred – “gave me only a few personal mementos. Nothing of value and nothing that belongs to Mr. Prin-Hallsey.”
“Then why not show me and prove it?” Hugh said.
“I do not like the thought of you going through Mrs. . . . my aunt’s private things, nor my own.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” Matthew asked.
“I don’t
exactly
know. But I shall know it when I see it.”
“Oh, very well!” Miss Aubrey suddenly relented, her face a grimace of frustration and something else Matthew could not identify. She handed Prin-Hallsey a stout old candle lamp. Then she grasped the chain around her neck and fished the key from the hollow between her breasts. Watching the key slide across her skin, Matthew forced himself to avert his gaze. She did not hand over the key, but gestured for Hugh to lead the way upstairs.
Holding the lamp, Hugh Prin-Hallsey preceded them up to the first floor and then up the narrow stairway to the turret attic.
Once at its door, Hugh gestured Mariah in before him and followed her inside. Matthew stayed in the doorway, the small space already crowded with the two of them and an assortment of trunks. Mariah quickly bent before an ornate chest, unlocked it, and stepped back.
Hugh handed her the candle lamp. Then he fell upon the chest like a starving man at a banquet, digging in with both hands. His frantic motions soon slowed, and he turned an angry profile toward Mariah.
“There is almost nothing here.” He lifted a fine old shawl with careless disdain. “You cannot expect me to believe she delivered this chest to your care with only this piece of nothing, two miniature portraits, and a few Edgeworth novels.”
Mariah said, “There were a few other articles of clothing – gloves, for example. But I have since incorporated them into my own wardrobe. You may see them if you like.”
“No letters? No . . . journals?”
Mariah stared at him. Allowed the question to resonate through the stifling silence. “And if there were, how should that concern you? What right have you to them?”
With a quick glance at Matthew, Hugh hedged, “Well, if there were papers dealing with the estate, or with family . . . concerns.”
“I promise you there were no legal documents. No deeds, no bank notes or stocks, no gems, or gold or silver either.”
Matthew wondered if Mariah had already removed whatever it was Hugh was looking for. Was that why she had initially resisted, guessing Hugh would suspect that very thing had she given in too easily?
Hugh studied her, as if testing her sincerity, or as if the words were slow to penetrate. He inhaled through his nose and exhaled heavily. Then, with another glance at Matthew, he rose and gestured for Mariah to lead the way back down.
But on the next floor, Miss Dixon called to them from the sitting room, where she stood at the window. “That crazy old captain is up on the roof again.”
Miss Aubrey hurried over and, curious, the two men glanced at each other then crossed to the window as well. Mariah picked up Martin’s glass and took a look, shaking her head. Then she handed the glass to Hugh, beside her.
“Spying on our neighbors? How diverting.” Hugh peered through the glass, but his amused smirk instantly fell away. “Thunder and turf . . .”
“What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “Do you know him?”
Hugh hesitated, then handed the glass back. “No. How should I know him?”
“But . . . from your reaction, I thought – ”
“No. I was merely shocked. Anyone would be, seeing that lunatic waving his arms from the ramparts.”
Matthew took his turn with the glass and saw the old man who had disrupted their theatrical. “He appears to be waving a white flag.” He lowered the glass and looked at her. “He is surrendering to you, Miss Aubrey. Any idea why?”
Mariah sat at the writing table and tried in vain to put the events of the day from her mind. How relieved she had been when Captain Bryant intervened during Hugh’s manic visit. Considering she had already removed her aunt’s journals, she had thought it wise to put up a show of resistance before unlocking the chest. She must have put her childhood playacting experience to good use, for it seemed to have some effect. Though Mariah was convinced that had Captain Bryant not been on hand, even her theatrics would not have kept Hugh from tearing through the entire gatehouse in his search. Was he so afraid of what Francesca’s journals might reveal about the family? Or did he truly believe her aunt had hidden some valuable treasure here in the gatehouse?
At all events, she was happy Hugh was gone, and the gatehouse was peaceful once more.
Taking advantage of the quiet, she dipped her quill and continued
The Tale of Lydia Sorrow
.
Was he about to ask for her hand, Lydia wondered, as he had all
but done several times before? Would he speak those longed-for words
in that melodic, mesmerizing voice of his? Was he then going to kiss
her with all the banked passion she saw in his eyes?
But with the excitement came an icy terror of being found out. Of
being caught with him in her bedchamber. How quickly they would
be forced to marry if they were! But surely even that would not be
the end of the world, would it? Yes, it would be devastating for her
parents to learn of it. And her character would be tainted, but only
until he redeemed it by marrying her. Which he meant to do. Of that
she had no doubt. But what was this talk of departing? He had just
returned from several months on the continent.
He took her hands in his. “My dear, how I have longed to see you
again. How I missed you, ached for you while I was away.”
“And I you.” By the candlelight which danced with the flickering
firelight, she eagerly surveyed his countenance, noticing he was already
in need of a shave.
He squeezed her hands almost painfully tight. “I thought I could
take my time. Court you. But my father insists. He wants to see me
married. Settled.”
She was ready to marry him at a moment’s notice, or at least as
soon as the banns might be read. “I don’t mind,” Lydia said.
He looked up at her, apparently taken aback.
His father was unwell, she knew. He would not defy him at
such a time.
Emboldened by the look of timidity, of near-defeat in his big,
expressive eyes, she whispered, “I am ready.”
She leaned forward, intending to place a comforting kiss upon his
cheek, but he mistook her intention. Pulling her into his arms, he met
her lips with his own and kissed her deeply.
Abruptly, he drew away. “Forgive me. I am the vilest creature I
know, but I could not help myself.”
She was surprised by the ferocity of his self-rebuke. While a
gentleman, he was not often severe with himself. She longed to kiss
the bleak expression from his face. Instead, she asked, “What is it?
What is the matter?”
He shook his head, lips pressed in a grim line.
“It is all right,” she murmured. “You know I would marry you
tomorrow.”
“I know,” he whispered. Taking her hand, he turned and led
her to the bed.
Mariah set down her quill and sighed. How wearying, how painful it was to remember that night.
She set aside the novel and instead brought out the script for Simon Wells, which she should have been working on in any case. But for a moment she just sat there, thinking of Captain Bryant. She could not work on the play without recalling the day he had read from the script . . . and kissed her.
Mariah sighed. Forcing her mind back to her task, she dipped her quill once more. She needed to finish the play, and she needed to finish it soon, for Mr. Crosby was calling in three days’ time to pick up the script. He had written to let her know when to expect him. He had also written to say that he wished to address a few other matters of business with her – though he did not specify what these were. She hoped it wasn’t more bad news . . . or reviews.
Jane Austen hid the fact that she was a writer
from the household help and from the public –
all of her books were published anonymously
during her lifetime.
– Rebecca Dickson,
Jane Austen, An Illustrated Treasury
Three days later, at precisely the appointed hour, A. K. Crosby walked across the gatehouse lawn, tucking his pocket watch away with one hand, while carrying a parcel under his other arm.
Mariah met him at the door. “More frightful reviews?”
He shook his head. “Not this time.”
Once they were seated, teacups in hand, Mariah asked, “How is the first book selling?”
“Fair, I would say.” He took a sip of tea. “Not as well as I should like.”
To change the uncomfortable topic, Mariah handed him the script. He briefly perused it, then pulled a bank note from his pocket. “Excellent. Here is half. I shall send the rest once Mr. Wells approves the script.”
