The Girl in the Gatehouse (38 page)

“I should be, but I am afraid.” She told him of Mr. Crosby’s request, the meeting she was already late for, the unknown man waiting to meet her right now in the Mill Inn.

Martin stepped in and stood before her. “Miss Mariah, you needn’t go if it upsets you.”

“But Mr. Crosby wishes it. If only I knew what manner of man this Thomas Piper is. That he intends no mischief.” She thought once more of last summer’s house party and winced. Was she opening herself to more humiliation?

“Of course he means you no harm,” Martin said. “I assume Mr. Crosby assured you of that?”

She threw up her hands. “Then why am I so frightened?”

“The unknown needn’t always be frightening, miss. But never you mind – you needn’t wonder anymore.”

“You are right. I should just meet him and have done.” She paced across the room once more.

“Only if you want to. I shall walk with you, if you like.”

“If only I knew I could trust him!”

“I think you can. He must have seen something in your writing he admired, and though he hasn’t written much in years now, his name meant something once, and he thought he might help you. Advise you a bit.”

“If his intentions are so honorable, why does he not reveal himself ?”

Martin sat on the spare chair. “Perhaps he wanted to test the waters from the safety of shore. Perhaps he didn’t want to inflict his presence on you. To invade your privacy, your life, more than he has. This way, going through Mr. Crosby, you have the right to refuse. And if you do, he will respect that and let it lie.”

Mariah only half heard what Martin was saying; knew he was trying to calm her, to give her a way out. Only slowly did his words begin to print themselves sensibly on the pages of her mind.

Mariah whirled to look at him, to gape.

Unperturbed, Martin leaned back patiently, scratching his forearm with his hook. “And I can tell you what manner of man he is,” he said easily, as if unaware of her stunned expression. “A washed-out old tar who never meant you any harm. Who’s not worth two hairs on your head. Who can hardly believe anybody ever wanted to read the bawdy adventures he wrote, but they did. In great numbers, at one time.”

Mariah sucked in her breath. “You . . . ? Are you saying that
you
are Mr. Piper?”

Suddenly the name resonated with meaning.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Aye, miss. That I am. Based many of my yarns on the tales of Captain Prince, which is why I feel I owe him so much.”

“I never guessed! Why did you not tell me?”

“As I said, miss. I didn’t want to foist myself, my help, on you – if it was unwanted.”

Mariah stared at him in wonderment. “Does Dixon know?”

He shook his head. “Nobody except you knows. Your aunt Fran knew. In fact, she was the one who suggested I write down the tales in the first place. But she took my secret to the grave with her. And I’ve kept hers as well.”

Her secret . . .
Mariah studied the face of this former seaman, steward, manservant, and . . . author . . . as though for the first time. How wise and knowing the weathered face, the steady blue eyes.

“Martin, may I show you something?”

She retrieved her copy of
Euphemia’s Return
. “Remember this book, the one that received all those effusive reviews?”

Accepting the volume, he glanced at its spine. “Yes.”

“I think Francesca wrote it.”

His brow furrowed. “Did she? She never let on she had got one of her novels published.”

“That is because she didn’t. Hugh did. I believe he posed as its author and took the money for himself.”

His eyes narrowed in thought. “She
was
vexed with Hugh, I recall. Accused him of taking some of her things. . . .”

“I think that is why she stowed her other manuscripts and journals here in the gatehouse. And may explain why Hugh has been poking about.”

Martin nodded and drew himself up straight. “What time is it?”

She checked the mantel clock. “Half past three.”

Martin rose. “Let’s see if we can catch Mr. Crosby. Thomas Piper wants a word.”

The next day, Miss Forsythe – wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet to shield her fair face from the sun – took Matthew’s arm as they strolled through the rose garden. Miss Hutchins, perched on a garden bench, and the Mabry sisters, playing at shuttlecock nearby, provided chaperones aplenty. Enjoying the warmth of her gloved hand against him, Matthew walked blindly ahead and along the drive, until he realized they had unintentionally neared the gatehouse. At least, it had been unintentional on his part.

Isabella swept her gaze over the place. “So this is the mysterious gatehouse.”

Matthew nodded. “Yes. My first introduction to Windrush Court. I stumbled upon it during a storm, before I had even let the place.” He did not mention being thrown from his horse.

“Ah . . . that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Well . . .” She darted him a cautious look. “You and Miss Aubrey seem quite close.”

“Close? How do you mean?” Prickles of alarm began creeping through his body. True, he had mentioned the poorhouse theatrical, and Hart had amused the ladies with a story of their gatehouse dinner prepared by a one-armed cook. But surely that was not enough for Isabella to come to such a conclusion.

“A single man and a single woman living on the same estate, sharing meals and charitable causes, working side by side . . .” She let her words drift away, as though they spoke for themselves.

“You make more of it than it is,” he insisted. “We are neighbors, yes, but we are not intimates. We are not, as you say, close.”

She swiveled around to face him, turning her back on the gatehouse. “That is not the impression I have.” She blinked her wide eyes. “I wonder, is it the impression Miss Aubrey has?”

“You are quite mistaken,” he said. “Miss Aubrey and I are only acquaintances.”

“Friends?”

“Well, perhaps, but I . . . I barely know the woman. Hart and I are friends, for example, but we have known one another for years.”

She hesitated. “Do you . . . think it wise, considering her, well, reputation, to involve yourself so closely in her exile?”

No, it hadn’t been wise. He saw that now. “She and I are not involved, as I said. We are not really even friends, in that sense – ”

He broke off. For there she was. Over Isabella’s shoulder, he glimpsed Miss Aubrey. Face stricken. Mouth slack. Eyes . . . betrayed. Instantly, his gut filled with bile.
Dash it
. He had not seen her behind the laundry line stretched from stable to woodshed, and now she had disappeared once more.

“We should return,” he said abruptly. “The others will wonder what became of us. Crawford especially.”

“Oh, let him wonder.”

Had he not been wracked with guilt, he would have taken Isabella up on that enticing suggestion, would even have stopped to consider what she might be offering. But instead, he was consumed with regret and the need to take his leave from Isabella so he might return, explain, and apologize to Miss Aubrey.

Half an hour later, he found her on the old swing, as he had hoped he might. She swung idly, propelled by the toe of one slipper. She looked so young, so innocent. He could not really believe she had been involved with Crawford. In the twilight, he could see that she had been crying and felt like the cruelest stinging insect God ever created.

“Miss Aubrey, I am sorry you heard that.”

“I am not. Now I know what you really think of me.”

“No, you don’t. I spoke rashly. You know how I feel about her. I did not want her to think that you and I . . . That any impediment stood between us. At least on my side.”

She regarded him with those wounded amber eyes, and his heart constricted to see the pain he had caused.

“No, Captain. I heard what you said. The words you spoke. Though not so long ago you said to me, ‘I hope we shall be friends.’ Words are important to me. I listen to each one, weigh and measure it. If I cannot trust your words, how can I trust you?”

Right or wrong, Matthew realized he was fond of this woman and prized her friendship. “You
can
trust me, Mariah.” He gave her a lopsided grin and attempted to tease her into a lighter mood. “Will you forgive me for sacrificing our friendship on the altar of love?”

She stared at him, face puckered, and shook her head. “That is the problem, exactly.”

His grin faded. “I don’t understand.”

“I know.” She sighed. “But thank you for coming to apologize anyway.”

After Captain Bryant had bid her good-night, Mariah stayed on the swing, staring after him. She had been stilled by his odd words. He had said them lightly, jokingly, but they struck her as the crux of the problem between them. Matthew Bryant would sacrifice anything to win in love.

The word
altar
seemed chillingly apropos.

The voice of the woman with him had seemed familiar, but with her back turned and that deep coal-scuttle bonnet, Mariah had gotten only a glimpse of her profile. What was it about her that Captain Bryant found so irresistible?

Rising and threading her way through the shadowy garden, Mariah realized she needed to put thoughts of Captain Bryant from her mind. It would not be easy. But she believed a visit with Lydia Sorrow might help.

Lydia’s heart pounded painfully as he sat on the edge of the bed
and pulled her gently down beside him.

“You know I would marry you tomorrow, if I could,” he said.
“Tell me you know that.”

Lydia nodded.

He leaned forward, kissing her temple, her cheek, her ear.

She shivered.

“How I have dreamed of this. You and I. Man and wife. Free
to live and love.”

His hand cupped her shoulder, then slowly slid down her arm,
grazing the side of her body, the swell of her, as he did so.

Had she locked the door which separated her room from Miss
Duckworth’s? What if the woman entered at this moment? She would
be shocked. Would sound the alarm and awaken the whole house. Or
would she? No . . . to save her position, her reputation as trustworthy
chaperone of young ladies, she would quietly propel the trespasser
from the room, all the while extracting promises of utter secrecy, and
demanding immediate announcement of a betrothal.

He kissed her neck and collarbone. Again, she shivered.

“You are cold. Here.” He straightened and pulled off his coat,
settling it around her shoulders. Then he proceeded to warm her
with kisses and caresses until her body felt molten and her brain
languorous. . . .

In the morning, Dixon set a basket of produce on the worktable and began untying her bonnet strings. “Mariah, if Mr. Phelps should happen to call, please tell him I am otherwise occupied.”

Mariah looked at her friend. “What don’t you like about Mr. Phelps?”

Arms crossed over her bosom, Dixon rubbed her hands up and down her forearms. “He looks at me as though he’d like me for pudding.”

Mariah grinned. “He likes you, Dixon. Nothing wrong with having an admirer.” She added to herself,
as long as he isn’t bound to another.