The Girl in the Gatehouse (31 page)

Setting down his teacup, he lifted the parcel and handed it to her. “I am making you a small gift. Now, you need not hesitate to accept. It is only two other books I have had the privilege of publishing. One is a book of travel writing – quite popular these days.”

Mariah opened the parcel and read the inscribed title. “
Enchanting
Views of Italy
by Mrs. Elizabeth Rushford. Is that
her
real name?”

“It is. I have met both Mrs. and Mr. Rushford. She travels with him and writes while he conducts his merchant business. But the second one, a novel, I am especially keen for you to read. It is
Euphemia’s
Return
, by our rising new star, Mrs. Wimble.”

Mariah frowned. Was that not the name of the book Mr. Hart had been reading? “I have heard of it.”

“You are not alone in that, for I have sold out my first printing and have ordered a second.”

“How nice for you and Mrs. Wimble,” Mariah said dryly. Inwardly she chastised herself for not wishing another female writer every success – even if more success than she herself enjoyed.

He cocked his head to one side. “Have you given any more thought to using your real name on your second book?”

“I have not changed my mind, A.K.”

“Is there some reason for your secrecy – beyond ladylike modesty – that you are not telling me?”

She stiffened. “I am telling you I wish to remain anonymous.”

He held her gaze a moment, then looked away. “Well. Only one more piece of business, then.” He looked at his pocket watch and, satisfied, snapped it closed once more. “I have been contacted by another of our authors, a man who sold a good deal of books in his day, and he wishes to meet Lady A. He is involved with a respected periodical and wishes to offer you advice, to publish reviews, perhaps even serialized excerpts of your work. It would be a boon to sales, Miss Aubrey. A veritable boon.”

Nerves and delight wrestled within her. “Who is it? Would I have heard of him?”

“That is the rub, Miss Aubrey. This author also published under a pseudonym, a name I think you would recognize. In fact, I have reason to believe you may already know the man.”

“Know his work, you mean,” Mariah clarified.

He shook his head. “The man himself.”

But Mariah was not acquainted with any authors. Unless . . . might Bartholomew Browne write novels as well as poetry? But why would he use his real name for poetry and a pseudonym for novels?
Foolish
girl
, she thought. Did not Walter Scott do that very thing? Mr. Browne did not contribute to any periodical, as far as she knew, but he could easily have begun doing so without her hearing of it. She heard so little of society news these days. Besides, who else could it be? She ticked off the men she knew. Surely not her brother, or Captain Bryant, or Hugh Prin-Hallsey, or Mr. Crosby himself. Might it be the man who broke her heart?

She asked, “Why would you think I know him?”

Mr. Crosby shrugged. “Just something he mentioned in his letter. I could be wrong. Does the name Thomas Piper mean anything to you?”

Mariah vaguely recognized the name. “Did he not write
The Golden
Prince Adventures
?”

“Exactly so.”

“My brother read those several years ago.” Mariah paused, frowning. “Thomas Piper wants to meet me?”

“Yes.”

“But that is not his real name?”

He shook his head. “I suppose he thinks that if the two of you meet and learn each other’s identities, that will ensure you keep the other’s secret.”

“I see. . . .” But Mariah was torn. As much as she wanted her books to succeed, she was nervous about opening her sanctuary to this unknown author, having no idea what manner of a man she was inviting into her life.

“May I think about it?”

Mr. Crosby rose. “Yes, but do not tarry too long. I shall soon have to decide whether or not I can afford to continue to publish your work. I would hate for you . . . for either of us . . . to miss this opportunity.”

After Mr. Crosby had taken his leave, Mariah flipped idly through
Enchanting Views of Italy
. She thought it most unlikely she would ever have the opportunity to travel to Italy or anywhere. She decided she would save this book for a day she felt like traveling to foreign shores in her mind, if not in body. She placed the volume on the sparse bookshelf, then sat down with Mrs. Wimble’s
Euphemia’s Return
.

For one strange and sunlit summer, Euphemia Dellwood resided at
Primrose Park, a friend’s London estate, with her mother, to be nearer
medical care in that prosperous city than she was likely to receive in
their small village. Mrs. Dellwood had been offered the use of the estate
gatehouse by the dowager Lady Dartmore, whom she had known when
both women were young and boarded at Mrs. Rathbone’s Seminary for
Girls. The dowager was not in the best of health herself and so felt
compassion on Mrs. Dellwood when she learned of her ongoing ailment
and the inability of the local apothecary to bring about noticeable
improvement. It was at Primrose Park, as her mother’s companion,
nurse, and housekeeper, that Euphemia first met the dashing and socially
superior Lord Dartmore, the dowager’s son.

Tall, black-haired, and brooding, Lord Dartmore was a widower
with a sickly child. He regarded Euphemia with all the interest a stallion
might appropriate a common dewberry blossom. Until the day he
was shot through the heart by one of her fatal thorns. . . .

How strange that the book should be set in a gatehouse. She would never choose a setting so indicative of her own situation for fear someone would find her out.

Mariah read for some minutes longer, and what began as a mild awareness – as of a gnat buzzing about a lamp, or a distant drumming of rain – grew less amorphous. The vague sense of familiarity, of comfort with the words, became something more specific, and Mariah realized she felt as though she were hearing a tale recounted by a friend. But why should that be? She looked at the copyright date, checking to be sure this was not some new edition of an older book she had read in the past. No, it had been published this very year – new, as Mr. Crosby had said. Why had he given her this particular book? Perhaps because the heroine resided in a gatehouse as Mariah did? Or had he some other reason to believe she would enjoy it? Mariah shook her head. Why did it seem so familiar?

Matthew wrote to his father, reiterating his invitation to visit Windrush Court. Unless Prin-Hallsey changed his mind about selling the place to him, Matthew had only two months left on his lease, and he truly wished to share this beautiful place with his parents.

As he wrote, he was reminded of his younger days, when he would write and ask his father to come to some academy event or commissioning. Most often John Bryant sent a terse reply in his stead.

Matthew posted
this
letter with all the anticipation of an opening salvo, already dreading return fire.

He was surprised when Hugh Prin-Hallsey sought him out a few days later. He joined Matthew in the library as Matthew drank his coffee and perused the London papers.

“I have been giving it a great deal of thought, old boy,” Hugh began. “And I have decided I am willing to part with Windrush Court after all. Assuming you still have a mind to buy the dear place?”

Matthew felt a rush of satisfaction at his words. When Isabella arrived next week, he could tell her he was the owner of Windrush Court, her future home, if only she would consent to be his wife. But this happy thought was followed immediately by a thread of suspicion.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” he asked. He considered the notion that he had proved himself worthy of the grand estate in Hugh Prin-Hallsey’s eyes, but somehow he doubted it.

When Hugh hesitated, Matthew added, “Has it something to do with whatever you failed to discover in the gatehouse?”

“Failed to discover . . . ?” Hugh screwed up his face in thought. “No, not in the least.”

Matthew regarded the man, trying to gauge his sincerity. If he could buy Windrush Court, did the man’s reasons for selling matter? Unless . . . had the man recently discovered some structural defect Matthew was unaware of ? He would consult Hammersmith and Jack Strong before he decided.

“Name your terms,” Matthew said. “And I shall consider it.”

Matthew and William Hart were paying a call on Miss Aubrey later that afternoon when Mr. Martin thundered down the stairs into the drawing room. Miss Aubrey looked up in some surprise, clearly taken aback to see Martin coming down from abovestairs. As far as Matthew knew, the odd man rarely ventured beyond the gatehouse kitchen.

“Captain Bryant. Mr. Hart. Glad you are here. Are you on board?”

“On board?” Matthew asked.

“The plan. The mission. I mean to rescue Captain Prince tonight. Are you in?”

“Rescue?” Matthew felt his brow furrow. “Is he in peril?”

Incredulous, Martin sputtered, “Is he in – ?” He ran a hand over his balding head. “How would you like to be locked up way up there in that poorhouse, all alone?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Well then?”

Matthew asked, “How do I know he isn’t just some crazy old man who has been locked up for his own good?”

“Come with me.” Martin hurried back up the stairs.

Matthew glanced at Miss Aubrey for approval, saw her nod, and then followed reluctantly behind, Hart at his heels.

At the window in the small sitting room, Martin nodded toward the poorhouse roof. “That’s how.”

When he squinted to see clearly, Martin handed him his glass.

Matthew focused the instrument and saw the perfectly executed signal flags hoisted on a line strung from a chimney. These were no layman’s signals, as that white surrender flag might have been. First came a blue-white-blue striped flag over a solid red flag –
I’ve run aground
.

The distant man followed this with a numerical signal from the closely guarded Admiralty Book. Yellow over red over yellow.
One
. Diagonal from lower hoist to upper fly, white over blue.
Six
. Sixteen –
Engage the enemy more closely
.

“Well?” Martin asked.

Matthew lowered the glass and handed it to Hart. “I’m in.”

When they described their plan to Miss Aubrey, her charming mouth opened in stunned alarm. “We are not at war with the poorhouse.”

“Miss Aubrey, you know that I am a peace-loving man,” Martin said. “But I cannot sit by while the captain is locked away against his will. I owe him too much.”

“Could we not civilly go to Mrs. Pitt and demand,
civilly
, to see him? To ascertain his true situation and wishes? For all we know he likes haunting the rooftop.”

Matthew crossed his arms. “Then why all the signaling?”

“Attention? Look, he managed to come down for the theatrical, so could he not manage to escape if he really wanted to?”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know. All I know is I shall not rest until I speak to him myself and do whatever I can to help him.”

In her distress, Miss Aubrey put her hands on her hips, causing her billowy dress to cling to her curves. “Captain Bryant, may I remind you that the undersheriff and his bailiff have jurisdiction in this matter? I would hate to see you locked away in the Stow jail.”