The Girl in the Gatehouse (11 page)
Very masculine, this Captain Bryant
, she thought. She admired his profile, the aquiline nose, strong cheekbones and chin. And she admitted to herself that she found him attractive, especially now that he was not the villain of this chapter in her life.
Mariah
, she silently warned. Had she not promised herself she was finished with men and their untrustworthy ways? Even as she thought this, she knew the promise was a poor shield against the truth. For she felt certain no honorable man would ever love her now. She would be wise to steel her heart.
And avert her eyes.
At the sight of Henry walking up the path to the gatehouse the following Saturday, Mariah’s palms began to perspire. Why had he not written? Were the tidings so bad he wished to break the news in person, and be there to comfort her in its wake?
She forced herself to wait until he knocked, then took a deep breath and opened the door. “Henry, hello. Do come in.”
He smiled but looked tired. She took his hat and indicated the best chair.
He sat down and she positioned herself on the settee near him, clasping her hands nervously in her lap.
“I shall not keep you in suspense,” he began. “Mr. Crosby wishes to publish your novel.”
She was afraid to believe it. “Really?”
“Yes, really. He will agree to either a flat payment for the copyright, or a commission at author’s risk. As neither of us has the money to cover the printing upfront, I chose the former terms. I hope I did right.”
Relief washed over her. “You did.” She could hardly take it in. Her book would be in print for all of England to see – or at least a few hundred souls willing to take a chance on some unknown author. Joy surged within Mariah, but it was dampened by the reserve on Henry’s face.
“What is it?”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers interlaced. “Mr. Crosby wants to meet you in person.”
“What?”
“I am afraid so, Rye.”
Her mind whirled. “But why? Why should he care? I am not the first authoress, nor author for that matter, to write anonymously or under a
nom de plume
.”
“True. Though he says he would prefer to know all of his writers’ identities even if readers do not. Apparently there has been public outcry against a particular male author, who has taken to writing under pseudonyms to pass off inferior work. And, as so many female authors seem to write moralizing, didactic tales these days, he feels an obligation to confirm their identities. He wants no surprises. Doesn’t want to discover his latest bestseller was penned within the walls of Newgate, or the Magdalene.”
“But this is terrible!” Mariah groaned. “I don’t want anyone poking about my affairs. That is the very reason I wished to keep my identity secret.”
“Just come down to Oxford and meet him. He will see you are a lady of education and refinement and all will be well. It is a formality only.”
“I have no wish to go to Oxford.”
“Have you no wish to be published either?”
Mariah stared at him. “He will insist upon it?”
“Yes, he was quite adamant. Though, perhaps . . .”
“What?”
“Mr. Crosby offered to call on you if that would be more convenient. Perhaps you would prefer that?”
Mariah hesitated. Did she? On one hand, she would much rather meet him within the security of her private retreat, away from prying eyes. How she dreaded the thought of traveling by coach, or even post, when who knew whom one’s fellow passengers might be. But to bring Mr. Crosby here, to her place of exile? Would it not in its very unusualness – a young unmarried woman living separately from her family – raise questions Mariah longed to avoid? And, worse yet, once the man had visited the gatehouse, what was to keep him from letting it slip where Lady A lived and in what humble circumstances? What if word were to reach her parents of not only Henry’s hand in her fledgling writing career, but of the endeavor itself, of which her father would disapprove nearly as heartily as her initial disgrace?
Considering her finances, she could honestly say it would be a hardship for her to make the trip. But if meeting him here in the gatehouse would open the door to publication and payment? She would have to do it. She would meet Mr. Crosby here, try her best to assure him she was a woman of quality, though she could hardly pretend to perfection, and hope he would be satisfied without requiring a detailed telling of her past. Perhaps she would even have the nerve to show him her second manuscript. She and Dixon were still reading aloud the most recent draft and polishing it as they went.
“Very well. If he is willing to come here.”
“He has said as much. He is eager to meet you.”
“When would he call?” she asked.
Henry squeezed her hand. “Saturday week.”
Might the man bring payment then? Or send it later, assuming she passed muster? She had only a fortnight to pay the twenty pounds for rent. She dearly hoped the payment would be enough, and that it would arrive in time.
Before he took his leave, Henry handed her a letter. “From Julia. I confided that I would be seeing you.”
“Oh . . . !” Mariah breathed. “She should not have risked doing so.”
Unfolding the single page, Mariah’s eyes skittered to the signature at the bottom, and there her attention was snagged by a postscript added in her mother’s hand.
How relieved I was to hear you are well. My prayers are with
you.
Mariah’s heart lifted to see it. Then she read her sister’s enthusiastic note.
Dear Mariah,
How cruel this separation is! I cannot tell you how I miss you
and our bedtime talks. I know Papa will be cross with me if he learns
I wrote to you, but I could not rest until I shared my fondest secret
with my dearest sister.
I am in love! Yes! I have met the most handsome, kind, and attentive
young man. It is my hope that he shall very soon ask Papa for my
hand. That is, once he rouses his courage – you know how hard it is
to ask our father for anything! I suppose I should not say it, but I am
still vexed. They will not tell me exactly what it is you have supposedly
done, but knowing you as I do, I cannot imagine it is anything
so bad. Not bad enough to justify sending you away . . . .
Oh, but it is,
Mariah thought sadly, feeling the pain and mortification of her wrongdoing anew. How sorry she was that her sister had to suffer for it too.
Walter Scott has no business to write novels,
especially good ones. It is not fair.
He has Fame and Profit enough as a Poet.
– Jane Austen, 1814
The next Saturday, Mariah slipped into a long-sleeved day dress of ivory lawn with a high belt of lavender ribbon. She pinned her hair simply and neatly, hoping to appear ladylike. As the time of the meeting approached, she descended to the drawing room and sat down, trying not to fidget.
Dixon stood watching at the window. When the clock struck the hour, she whispered, “He’s here!”
Mariah rose from her chair on rubbery legs and smoothed her skirt as Dixon opened the front door.
Mr. Crosby was a gentleman of middling height, but his thin frame made him appear taller. He wore his mink brown hair combed fashionably forward, silky fringes blending with dark brows. His light brown eyes were the largest she had ever seen on a fully grown man. His nose was thin and prominent and his cheekbones sharply evident beneath his pale skin. Still, the overall effect was pleasing. Mariah decided he had the appearance of a well-dressed ascetic. She felt quite voluptuous by contrast.
“A. K. Crosby, ma’am,” he said and bowed. “Have I the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Lady A?”
“You have, sir.” She curtsied, but not too low, suddenly aware of the modest display of
décolleté
her simple gown allowed. She surely did not appear a starving artist, at least not compared to him. But his fine clothes – crisp cravat, waistcoat, and coat of sable brown with velvet collar – were not a poor man’s garb.
“An honor, madam,” he said warmly, and Mariah felt pleasure at the earnestness of his words.
“Please, let us sit and be comfortable,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She made a mental note to offer him seconds of everything when refreshments were served.
Tea, Mr. Crosby? Muffins? Biscuits, butter?
Dixon, she saw, had failed to take his hat. Smiling apologetically, she gestured toward the end table. He laid his hat there and sat down, pulling his coattails around himself as he did so. She sat as well, smoothing down the skirt of her gown. She hoped it was not conspicuously out of fashion.
She glanced up and found him watching her, eyes alight and a smile playing about his lips. Self-conscious, she glanced down at her bodice to assure herself all was as it should be. Why had she not worn a fichu?
He began, “I hope you do not mind my saying that you are younger and . . . um, more . . . graceful than I expected.”
Graceful? Was that what he meant to say? His eyes said
pretty
, but she supposed it would be unprofessional to say something so personal and pedestrian.
“Are most of your authors older?” she asked, hoping to appear composed.
“Yes. I would say most are in their middling years, though some are quite old indeed.”
“And how do they respond to having such a young publisher?”
She had not meant to ask that, but if the man was even thirty, she would have been very much surprised.
He looked down modestly and chuckled. “Touché, Miss . . . Do you mind if I call you by your real name?”
“No, I suppose not.”
He tucked his chin apologetically. “Then . . . you shall have to tell me what it is.”
Mariah felt her cheeks grow warm. “Oh, forgive me. I thought my . . . Henry might have told you.”
“He is very protective of you, your Mr. Aubrey.” He crossed one leg over the other and picked a piece of lint from his trousers. “He will be taking his fee from your earnings, I suppose?”
She shook her head. “He refuses to take any.”
One dark brow rose. “No agent fee nor even allowance for expenses? A most generous man, your Mr. Aubrey.”
Mr. Crosby is fishing
, she realized. What was worse, having the man think Henry her lover, or admitting he was her brother and risk their father finding out Henry was helping her?
Tentatively, she asked, “Henry did not explain the nature of our relationship?”
The man looked taken aback, and if she was not mistaken, the hint of a blush tainted his pale cheeks.
This will never do
. She made her decision. How likely was her father to meet this young Oxford publisher in any case? She said, “Henry is my brother, Mr. Crosby. He acts as my man of business out of the goodness of his heart.”
His expression was, she thought, incredulous and perhaps relieved. “If he is your brother, then why not tell me? Why all the secrecy?”
She bit her lip. “It is our father, you see. He would not approve of Henry having any part in my new life.”
Fortunately, he misunderstood. “Your father does not approve of novel writing?”
That is an understatement
, Mariah thought. Her father had lamented ever allowing the volumes into his house, blaming them in part for the “romantic fancies” that had led to her fall. She said only, “He does not. And so, Mr. Crosby, if I could ask you to refrain from mentioning Henry Aubrey’s connection to Lady A, or mentioning him at all for that matter, we would both be very grateful. And of course I wish to remain anonymous as well.”
His brown eyes sparkled. “And as I have yet to learn your name, your anonymity is assured.”
“I am Miss Aubrey.”
“Miss?”
She nodded.
“And might I learn your Christian name, though, of course, I would not presume to use it?”
“I don’t know, A.K.” She grinned. “Might I learn yours?”
He smiled appreciatively. “Anthony King. But as it was my father’s name as well, I prefer to go by A.K.”
“I see. My given name is Mariah.”
