The Girl in the Gatehouse (44 page)

“Isabella, this is ridiculous!” he hissed. “Open the door so we can talk.”

“No. Go away,” came her muffled response.

Matthew was surprised that hearing Miss Forsythe rebuff the man was not more satisfying than it was. The raised voices grated on him, and he turned and loped down the stairs. He took himself back outside, to breathe in fresh air and solitude.

Several minutes later Mr. Crawford left the house. Alone. The sheepish man avoided his gaze as he passed and disappeared into the stable. Ten minutes or so later, the groom threw wide the door, and Crawford emerged on his horse and trotted away. His adversary was retreating. Matthew waited for the surge of elation to wash over him. It did not come.

Eleven o’clock. Noon. One. Still no sign of Miss Forsythe. Was she avoiding him as well? Likely she blamed him for the debacle, since he had allowed Miss Aubrey to participate. Or perhaps she was embarrassed and defensive over her connection with Crawford but was too proud to admit it. Whatever her feelings, it seemed she and Miss Hutchins planned to stay in her room until everyone else had gone.

Matthew was in the library, writing a letter to his mother, when a soft knock interrupted his train of thought. He glanced up to see the fair hair of Miss Forsythe as she poked her head inside the room.

“May I?”

“Of course. Come in.” Matthew rose and stepped around the desk, his heart beating oddly, irregularly, in a strange combination of hope and dread.

She stopped a few yards from him and looked uncharacteristically timid – eyes furtive, hands clasped.

To break the silence, Matthew said, “Mr. Crawford has taken his leave.”

“Yes, I know. I sent him away.”

Matthew felt his brows rise in question and waited, holding his breath.

“I am through with him.” She glided forward. “I know now it is you I want. You.” Before he could respond, she threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him fervently.

His body and brain reacted with a collision of desire and revulsion. He wrenched his mouth from hers. “Miss Forsythe, have you forgotten your intended so soon?”

Again she pressed her body to his, but this time instead of desire, pure irritation rose up within him. He grasped her elbows and thrust her from him. “Isabella, look. I know you were hurt, and you probably want to injure him in return. But not with me. It is too late for us.”

She slowly shook her head, incredulous. “Did you not beg me to break my engagement with Crawford and marry you instead? I thought you and I had an understanding.”

An understanding?
Matthew’s mind whirled and rebelled. Had they? No! But if she had broken her engagement with Crawford because he had offered marriage . . .

Isabella’s eyes glistened. “Will you betray me as well?”

Her pained words stilled Matthew, rendered him stunned, speechless. He loved Mariah, though he had fought it for some time. But
was
he duty-bound to Isabella? His mind rehearsed all the things he had said to her in trying to win her. Yes, any woman might reasonably assume . . .
Oh, dear God. What have I done? Forgive my foolish pride!

He said gruffly, “You have broken your engagement?”

She squared her shoulders. “I am through with James Crawford. He’s a fool. Why do you think I tarried so long in marrying him?”

“I don’t know. I thought you had your doubts about the man.”

She looked up at him expectantly. “Well then, was I not right to doubt?”

Matthew was filled with the dire angst he always felt after a bloody battle. What was wrong with him? This – she – was what he had wanted. Worked for. Why did he not take her in his arms and beg her to marry him? Why did he feel he should run far and fast and never look back?

“Miss Forsythe. Would you excuse me for a moment?”

Her eyes dimmed. “Of course. Is everything all right?”

He muttered, “Just, ah, give me a few minutes, please.” He turned and walked from the room, leaving her standing there, clearly surprised and concerned by his reaction. In the hall, he strode toward the front door, as though his legs had already decided to make good on his impulse to flee.

Pausing, he ran a hand across his face and diverted to the front windows instead. There he stared out at the gardens of Windrush Court. He was so close. . . . Everything he’d thought he wanted was waiting in the palm of his hand. His nerves jangled. His stomach turned sour. He fisted his hands at his sides, whether to capture the dream or crush it, he was not certain.

Hoofbeats rumbled into his awareness. Through the wavy glass, Matthew saw a horse and rider galloping up the drive, raising a cloud of dust. Matthew frowned and stepped outside. James Crawford rode up, horse heaving and lathered. Whip marks crisscrossed its hindquarters. Angered at the sight, Matthew strode toward the stable, calling for the groom.

Dismounting, Crawford snarled, “Where is she?”

“In the library. This poor animal looks half dead.”

“I rode above twelve miles before turning back.”

“With no thought to your horse?”

“I had someone more important on my mind.” Without awaiting a reply, Crawford barreled across the drive and up the stairs to the house.

The young groom scurried out, and Matthew bid him to care for the ill-used creature. Then he followed Crawford inside.

When Matthew stepped into the library, Isabella pulled away from Crawford and stepped to Matthew’s side, grasping his arm.

Crawford frowned. “Isabella. What are you doing?”

“I am returning to Captain Bryant, as you see.”

Crawford’s mouth was a hard line. “You and I are engaged to be married.”

She narrowed her eyes. “An error I intend to redress.”

“You would not dare. I have waited above a year for you – given you plenty of time to get over your pet about last summer. I’ll not let you go now without a fight. Break our engagement and I will sue your father for breach of promise.”

“It is all about the money for you, is it not? You don’t really care about me. Never have.”

“That is not true, Belle, and you know it. Yes, my father forced me in the beginning, but I have come to love you. Would I have waited all this time, passing up dozens of pretty, suitable girls, otherwise?”

She lifted her chin. “Go and marry one of your pretty, suitable girls. I don’t care.”

“You don’t mean that. You are merely vexed. I know I acted stupidly, and I am sorry for it.”

Listening to the lovers quarrel, the clouds parted in Matthew’s brain and the truth dawned upon him in a wave of relief. He took a deep breath. “Miss Forsythe, I am relieved to hear you are still engaged to Mr. Crawford, for you see, I have become quite attached to Miss Aubrey.”

She turned to him, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Miss Aubrey? After what she did? She is nothing but a – ”

Matthew held up a warning hand. “Careful, Isabella. I will not hear a word against her. Do I make myself clear?”

Crawford’s brows dipped low. “Bryant, I say. Must you – ”

Matthew ignored him. “How would you like it, Miss Forsythe, if I told the world what you did upon greeting me a few minutes ago behind closed doors? And you an engaged woman?”

Her neck and cheeks suffused scarlet. Her face was far less pretty when wearing a deep frown. “You would not do such an ungentlemanly thing.”

“Only if provoked. Only if I continue to hear whispers about Miss Aubrey.”

“But . . . you tried to convince me . . . And I . . .”

“You have already wasted four years,
Belle
.” Matthew spoke archly as relief began loosening his tongue. “Fortunately you were young then, and so you have not quite lost your bloom.” He nodded toward Crawford. “But lose this one and have to start all over, with
your
reputation . . . ? I shudder to think of your chances of marrying well.”

She slowly shook her head. “I was willing to defy my father to marry you. And bear the social taint of being called a jilt, and you have the nerve to throw it back in my face?”

He winced and said more formally, “I do apologize, Miss Forsythe. It was wrong of me to try to come between you and Crawford. But . . . you never even broke the engagement. I don’t think you have any right to be offended.”

Isabella’s voice shook. “I wanted to be certain you meant what you said, but I see I was wrong to believe you a man of honor. Perhaps my father was right about you all along.”

Matthew shrugged. “Perhaps he was. My wounded pride festered until I thought I would explode. I became fiercely determined to prove him and you, and everyone, wrong.”

The image of Mariah’s face filled his mind’s eye. “It blinded me to my growing feelings for another – a generous, talented, and beautiful woman.”

Isabella whispered, “You would choose her over me?”

Matthew nodded. “I am sorry if it hurts you, but yes. A thousand times over.” To himself he added,
If she will have me.

For a moment Miss Forsythe stared at him. Then she drew herself up and managed a tremulous smile. “Well then, Captain, I wish you happy.” She turned on her heel. “Come, James. It is past time we took our leave.”

Matthew looked on from the portico as Miss Forsythe, Miss Hutchins, and a sheepish Mr. Crawford rode away together in the Forsythe carriage, Crawford’s horse tethered behind. He felt an empty lowness, but not the defeat he would have expected to feel even a fortnight ago.

He had been such a fool. Would Mariah even believe he loved
her
after he had so doggedly pursued another? He would need to wait; bide his time. Not launch from one proposal to the next. He would need to prove himself trustworthy, his intentions honorable. Especially after what she had gone through at the hands of another man. He shoved the thought – more painful than ever – to the back of his mind.

Hart appeared at his side, leaning against one of the portico columns as the carriage disappeared from view. He said nothing for a few moments, nothing to compete with the sounds of wheels and horse hooves. But when birdsong once again dominated the air, he asked, “Now what?”

Matthew sighed. “Now we relax and enjoy ourselves.” He glanced at his friend. “Fancy a horse race?”

Hart’s eyes searched his face, apparently relieved to find his spirits intact, and grinned like a lad. “Aye, aye, Captain!”

As they trudged toward the stables, Matthew realized he was glad it was over. He had prepared, entered battle, and fought hard. Victory had been in his sights and in his grasp, but he had read the warning signals and retreated just in time. He had not landed the prize, but at least there were few casualties, and he himself had survived remarkably unscathed.

I can no more forget [Sense and Sensibility]
than a mother can forget her sucking child;
I have had two sheets to correct . . . but
I have scarcely a hope of its being out in June.

– Jane Austen, a letter to her sister, 1811

chapter 34

Sitting in the drawing room, Dixon reviewed what Mariah had written so far in
The Tale of Lydia Sorrow.
Her finger traced each line as she silently read – Mariah had no wish to read this particular novel aloud. Anxious for her friend’s reaction, Mariah paced behind the chair, too nervous to sit.

At one point Dixon turned to give Mariah a significant look over her spectacles. She then lifted her drawing pencil to cross something out. Mariah glanced over her shoulder as Dixon ran a line through:

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.

Mariah blushed, glad her brother Henry was not on hand for this reading.

Reaching the end, Dixon lowered the page, removed her spectacles, and rubbed her eyes.

Mariah gave an anticipatory wince. “What do you think?”

“Well . . .” Dixon paused. “It is certainly . . . painful to read.”

Mariah huffed. “Try living it.”

“Do you really want to go through with this?” Dixon’s eyes were wide with concern. “I can certainly see that young women might find such a cautionary tale edifying, but . . .”

“I know.” Mariah sighed. “I don’t like it either. I grow weary of regret and misery.”

“But did you not promise Mr. Crosby a third manuscript?”

“I did. And he assures me cautionary tales are all the crack in London. He named several that have sold quite briskly.
The Reformed
Coquette
,
The Unfortunate Magdalen
. . .”

Dixon frowned. “Lydia Sorrow is not a Magdalen, and neither are you.”

“I know. But I cannot help thinking that perhaps enough cautionary tales have already been written.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “And why did I not heed a one of them?”

Dixon laid a hand on her arm, expression earnest. “Mariah. God is far more forgiving than people are, or than we are to ourselves. Society may never forgive and certainly never lets anyone forget. But God will forgive you if you ask Him. Better yet, He will forget it ever happened.”

Mariah thought it sounded too good to be true. She certainly believed God forgave others. Why was it so hard to believe He would forgive her?