The Girl in the Gatehouse (36 page)
He was waving at
them
. Smiling at
them
. He had not even seen Mariah, or if he had, was ignoring her.
Mariah turned sharply, embarrassment creeping up her neck and heating her cheeks.
Dear God in heaven, let him not see me. Let him not witness
my mortifying reaction, my foolish, foolish hope. Stupid presumption
.
Stupid,
stupid girl!
Mariah attempted to walk naturally, to not draw attention to herself, but her feet would not obey. They strode faster and faster with her heartbeat, farther and farther from the man who once had the power to save her. But had walked away instead.
Matthew watched Miss Aubrey hurry away, cheeks flaming. Had one of the men said something to her? Had they even seen her? Captain Parker, Mr. Browne, and a man he assumed was Mr. Crawford seemed to be conversing companionably enough. Why was she so embarrassed . . . unless . . . did she know one of them?
What was it Hugh had intimated – that Miss Aubrey had caused a scandal, or was, perhaps, not the picture of propriety she appeared? It would explain why she was not married, yet living out from under her father’s roof. Mariah herself had admitted she did not like house parties, that they were not, in her experience, “innocent.” But that didn’t necessarily mean the rumors were true.
Matthew wondered if one of these men was involved in the supposed scandal, whatever it was. If so, how unthinkable that he had brought the scoundrel to her own backyard. A sudden irrational urge to trounce the man rose up in him. But was Miss Aubrey really as innocent as he wanted to believe? In war, rarely was one party completely innocent while the other bore total blame. And Matthew knew from long experience that after battle both vessels were likely to be damaged.
Literature is not the business of a woman’s life,
and it cannot be.
– poet Robert Southey, in a letter to Charlotte Brönte
On the first Sunday in August, Mr. Phelps knocked on the kitchen door and asked if he might walk Miss Dixon to church. Dixon, in her Sunday dress and bonnet, prayer book in hand, nodded her assent.
Once they had gone, Mariah felt more isolated than ever, especially now that Captain Bryant and Mr. Hart were occupied with the house party. And worse, she guessed they would likely distance themselves from her permanently, once their mutual acquaintance made known every titillating detail of her fall.
Lonely, Mariah walked over to the poorhouse, seeking company. The Merryweather sisters were sitting out of doors as she’d hoped, Amy in her wheeled chair, and Agnes on the wooden bench beside her. Both women held long needles and balls of knitting wool in their laps.
“Hello, Miss Merryweather. Miss Amy.”
“Miss Aubrey! Maggie was just here, singing that hymn you liked.”
“Oh, I am sorry I missed it.” As she drew near, Mariah saw how thin Amy’s cheeks had become and how her fingers trembled as she stoically knitted on. While Agnes knitted what appeared to be a stocking of grey wool, Amy’s yarn was a bright, orangy-red.
Mariah sat on the end of the bench nearest Amy and asked gently, “How are you, Miss Amy?”
“Failing, my dear,” she said with a resigned little smile, her needles in constant motion.
Mariah’s despondency must have shown on her face, for Amy unwound her fingers, reached over, and patted her hand. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Miss Mariah. I don’t.”
At the woman’s touch, tears burned Mariah’s eyes.
Miss Amy squeezed Mariah’s fingers, then lifted a second ball of cochineal-red knitting wool from her lap. She pinched a gnarled finger and thumb around a small knot at one end. “Do you see this tangle?”
Mariah nodded.
“This is my life on earth. And this – ” with a stunning burst of strength, Amy tossed the ball in a long arc, still holding the knotted end. The ball flew, bounced, and then rolled, leaving a trail of colorful yarn behind. It topped a small rise before disappearing from view, no doubt rolling still – “is my life to come.”
“Amy! What a waste!” Agnes clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You and your metaphors. What nonsense.”
“Perhaps,” Amy allowed. “But I like to think of them. Keeps the mind occupied.” Her eyes, focused on the red trail, grew distant. “The body might be engaged in the most base drudgery, but always the mind can be thinking on whatever is lovely, pure, noble. . . .”
Mariah wondered if that was the secret to Miss Amy’s cheerfulness.
Agnes propped one hand on the arm of the bench and groaned to her feet.
“Sit, Miss Merryweather,” Mariah urged. “I will be happy to retrieve the wool.”
Mariah took the knotted end of yarn from Miss Amy and followed the trail, rewinding it as she went. When she returned, both sisters thanked her.
Miss Amy studied the red wool. “I was going to make a muffler for myself,” she said. “I think everyone here has one of mine already. But I shall make one for you instead, Miss Mariah, if you like.”
“Oh, no, Miss Amy, you must make one for yourself. This cheery red color will be so charming on you.”
Amy smiled, running the vivid yarn through her bent fingers. “I do like it – though Agnes says it is a color for a Jezebel.”
Mariah recalled the awful past Mrs. Pitt had mentioned. Yes, Mariah thought, Agnes Merryweather might very well link such a color to a colored past.
Mariah stayed and chatted with the Miss Merryweathers for several minutes more. She asked about Lizzy Barnes, but the sisters said seeing the girl was unlikely, as Mrs. Pitt kept her busy morning to night most days.
They also confided that a certain gentleman had come to visit them after his nighttime “rescue” the month before, and that the same gentleman had not been seen or heard from since. Mariah realized that she had not seen Captain Prince on the roof since then either. She hoped he was all right and wondered what had become of Martin’s rope and grappling hook.
The next afternoon, while Martin cooked and Dixon cleaned up after him, Mariah energetically swept the drawing room. She wished she could sweep away the lingering mortification over her recent – and past – encounters with a certain man as easily.
Lizzy Barnes came to the door, little Maggie with her. Mariah had all but given up on Lizzy coming to work at the gatehouse.
She greeted them warmly. “Lizzy, how I hoped you would come! And Maggie too. I know Dixon and Martin will be delighted to see you. Go on back to the kitchen and say hello.”
Maggie grinned and dashed through the door.
Once they were alone, Mariah led Lizzy to the settee. “Did Mrs. Pitt mention that I asked to hire you?”
Lizzy nodded. “Last week.”
Mariah wondered why Lizzy was just now coming to see her. She certainly did not seem as pleased as Mariah had anticipated.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful, miss,” Lizzy began. “I would be glad to say good riddance to John Pitt and his mother both. But . . .”
“But?”
“I fear what might become of George. I don’t want to leave him alone. And then there’s my mother.”
“Your mother?”
Lizzy nodded. “It would break her heart if I entered service. She was a gentleman’s daughter, see. Married beneath her when she married a miller, and never tires of reminding me.”
“Yes, George mentioned it.”
“She said her only options were becoming a companion or governess – the only proper occupations for ladies.”
“But surely, compared to the poorhouse . . .”
Lizzy shook her head. “I know. But I tell her I am Mrs. Pitt’s assistant, see? I’m not a
servant
, am I?”
But Mariah did not need another assistant – Dixon already assisted her admirably in her secret occupation. She thought a moment, then suggested, “Perhaps I might call Dixon my assistant and you my companion?”
“Perhaps,” Lizzy said, but still did not appear convinced. Pressing her lips together, she looked down at her hands. Mariah noticed a small stain on her sleeve.
“Mrs. Pitt said it would be . . . bad for me to live here.”
Mariah frowned. “Bad . . . how?”
“For my . . . reputation. She said unmarried women don’t live alone unless their family put them out for good reason.”
Mean-spirited woman!
Mariah thought, yet guilt tugged at her. Mrs. Pitt might have a point, as much as Mariah hated to acknowledge it. Which was worse – working for a disreputable woman or living on parish charity? She said softly, “I did make a mistake in my past, Lizzy. A mistake with a man. It is why I wished to help you avoid my error. I do not think living here will bring you any harm, but you will have to decide that for yourself.”
Lizzy nodded, thoughtful and quiet.
Mariah invited her to stay for dinner. The girl declined but did stay for half an hour longer, helping Martin and Dixon, who were scurrying about the kitchen trying to get several courses prepared at once. All the while, Maggie sat on a stool at the work counter, ostensibly helping, but mostly humming, swinging her legs, and snitching bites of whatever food passed within reach.
Lizzy proved a hard worker and a calming person to have on hand. Mariah wished again the girl might live and work in the gatehouse.
Before she took her leave, Lizzy whispered, “I am not saying no, miss. I am saying not yet.”
That night at bedtime, Mariah found Dixon staring into her looking glass, running her hand over the fine creped skin of her neck.
“Maggie said I reminded her of her grandmother. A
grandmother
. When did I grow so old? I have never even been a mother. And, as much as I don’t wish to look like one, I shall never have the privilege of being a grandmother either.”
There were no words expected, and none to give. Mariah touched her friend’s arm and left her.
Miss Aubrey, Matthew noticed, had been careful to keep her distance from the house and gardens since that first afternoon. This seemed to add credence to the rumors he’d heard, and as much as he’d enjoyed her company, he was relieved he had not gotten more involved with her.
But several days into the house party, Hart’s treasure hunt brought his guests near her domain.
The group congregated around the gardener’s cottage. Mr. Crawford and the Mabry girls undertook a search of the hothouse, while the rest of them – he, Parker, Browne, Miss Forsythe, and Miss Hutchins – lifted pots and looked under wheelbarrows in the yard, hoping to find the next clue.
Abruptly, Captain Parker straightened. “I say, who is that?”
Matthew turned and followed the man’s gaze down the gatehouse lane in time to glimpse the retreating figure of Miss Aubrey.
Matthew waited to see if anyone else would acknowledge her, but no one responded.
“Do you know her, Bryant?” Parker persisted.
“Yes, I have made her acquaintance. Pleasant girl. Lives on the estate.”
“But what is her name?” Ann Hutchins asked, staring down the wooded lane. “She looked familiar.”
Matthew had hoped not to have to mention her name, but now could not avoid it. “A Miss Aubrey.”
“Not Mariah Aubrey?” Isabella said, alarmed.
Matthew’s stomach clenched. “Yes. Why?”
Isabella appeared stricken. “Mariah Aubrey is living
here
?”
