The Girl in the Gatehouse (18 page)
“Miss Aubrey, I had no intention of coming here to beg an invitation nor to inconvenience you in any way.”
“No inconvenience, Captain. It would be a pleasure. If you and your friend will not mind our more humble surroundings?”
“Not at all. If anything we shall be more comfortable here than in that echoing space.”
Once they had settled on a time, he thanked her again and took his leave with “until tomorrow, then.”
Dixon overheard his parting words. “Tomorrow? What is happening tomorrow?”
Mariah said wanly, “You and I are hosting our first dinner party.”
“What?” Shock lengthened Dixon’s already long, angular face.
Mariah sighed. “Let us hope Martin is up to the task.”
Mariah found Martin and presented the plan. To her relief, he accepted the challenge eagerly.
“Thank you, miss. You have no idea what a pleasure it will be to cook for a captain again.”
While Martin planned the menu, Mariah and Dixon began a flurry of cleaning and straightening, enlisting George Barnes’s help with some of the heavier tasks. They sought out Jack Strong to repair the leg of a wobbly chair and Mr. Phelps for flowers for the table. A list for market was prepared, Dixon dispatched to fulfill it, and Mariah’s purse lightened to pay for the required foodstuffs.
Early the next morning, Martin donned an apron and began humming about the kitchen. He requested Dixon’s help in peeling, cutting, and chopping. Mariah feared her old friend would take offense, but was relieved to see Dixon put aside whatever resentments she felt and work beside Martin without grumbling.
Pausing to wipe her hands between tasks, Dixon handed him a small jar she had purchased the day before.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Ointment for your arm with a pleasanter smell, if you please.”
Mariah cringed, but was doubly relieved when Martin took no offense either.
“Thank you.” He lifted the lid and took a trial whiff. “Why, Miss Dixon, I shall smell like a lady.”
“An improvement, sir, I promise you. Now, let’s get busy. These ducks will not pluck themselves.”
Captain Bryant and his friend appeared at the designated hour in half dress, and both looked so elegant, Mariah was relieved she had worn her best rose gown and allowed Dixon to curl and pin her hair. Captain Bryant had brought claret, and for the cook, a pouch of pipe tobacco.
“Miss Aubrey, may I present Mr. William Hart. Hart, this is my kind neighbor, Miss Mariah Aubrey.”
Hart bowed, an appreciative gleam in his pale blue eyes. He appeared a few years younger than Captain Bryant, but that might have been due to his fair hair and boyish, innocent features, which made his limp seem all the more regrettable.
She curtsied and welcomed both men to the gatehouse. She introduced Miss Dixon as her companion, as well as Martin, though she stumbled over what title to bestow upon the man.
All were seated in the drawing room, Mariah and even Martin insisting that Dixon sit down with them and leave the serving to him.
Expressions of delight followed a first course of spring soup and crimped salmon, then crescendoed to groans after courses of ragout of duck and green peas, garnished tongue, beetroot and cucumber salad, and gooseberry tartlets. The wine and conversation flowed comfortably for more than an hour. Finally, Dixon rose to help Martin clear away the main meal and carry in the coffee and desserts.
“Miss Aubrey tells us you served as captain’s steward, Mr. Martin. A Royal Navy man, like Hart and myself.”
“That I did, sir – though it was a long time ago.” Martin began pouring coffee as Dixon reclaimed her seat.
“I never ate half this well on any commission, I assure you. Well done, man.” The captain raised his coffee cup in salute, then insisted Martin sit down and join them.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Whom did you serve under?” Hart asked.
“Oh, I doubt you’ve heard of them. I became a steward when I was quite young. Not long after I lost the hand. I first served a year under a Captain Stone. Man as hard as his name. Big man. Cared more about the quantity than quality of his meals. Hard to take pride in your work under a master like that.
“The second captain was far different. He appreciated the finer things, and counted my cooking among them. I served under him for only one journey more than thirty years ago now. But what a journey it was! Six months at sea without landfall. And then, only some wild coast to take on fresh water. What adventure. What danger. But you young men know all about that. Don’t want to bore you.”
“Not at all.” Hart poured Martin a glass of claret and gestured for him to continue.
Nodding his thanks, Martin said, “I shall never forget the last night I served under Captain Prince.”
Mariah noticed Captain Bryant and Mr. Hart exchange knowing glances and wondered why. Did they know the man?
“The captain was fearless and kindhearted both. The night it happened, he was visiting a young midshipman who’d taken ill. That’s why he was belowdecks when the Frenchies boarded our ship. They must have used some spell or poison darts on the watch, for none of us heard a single shot. They cut down the first men who rushed on deck, then closed and barred the hold, trapping us like smelt in a barrel. But that didn’t stop Captain Prince. In no time we had a plan and were battering the hatches from below. But them Frenchies, they pointed our own cannons at us and fired down the hold. Many men were killed on the spot, but Captain Prince, he charged up the stairs, cutlass blazing, and killed the French captain and two other officers before they knew what hit them.”
Martin sipped his wine while the others drank coffee. “But you see, we were so caught up in the fight that we failed to notice two things.” Martin held up his good hand and raised his index finger. “First – the captain had been hit on the side of his head. The man was so wild with bloodlust that he didn’t know it, and we followed blindly after him.”
Martin raised another finger. “And second – while we were trapped in the hold, a fierce gale had blown up. And by the time we realized it, it was too late. The boarding party had damaged our masts and cut the sails, and even though we fought off the Frenchies, there was little we could do to fight off that storm. After all that brave fighting, we lost the ship. We went down, every last one of us. I managed to sink my hook into a floating mizzenmast and hold on for dear life. A few others grabbed on to some wreckage, and we managed to stay afloat until a passing ship picked us up. The coxswain, the carpenter, and a few midshipmen – that ailing lad among them.”
Mariah watched the story unfold in her mind in vivid, awful detail. “And the captain?”
Martin shook his head. “With that massive head wound? No. I did once hear a rumor that he’d been found, but I cannot credit it. I never saw him again. Nor saw any mention of him in the newspapers as having received either court-martial or another commission.”
Again Mariah saw Captain Bryant and Hart exchange amused looks.
“Well, sir,” Captain Bryant said, “I give you credit as a skilled storyteller, though of course we all know that such tales of a ‘Captain Prince’ are mythical.”
“Mythical?” Martin frowned. “Are you telling me I dreamt going down with the
Largos
?”
“The
Largos
was real and lost, that much is true. But a Captain Prince . . . ?” Bryant ended his thought with a shrug.
Martin bristled. “And I am telling you, I served under the man myself. And I still have his glass to show for it.” Ignoring their protests, Martin rose and hurried from the room.
A few minutes later he returned, breathing hard. He shoved the glass toward Bryant, who reluctantly accepted it.
“Gave it to me just as the first alarm was raised. Thrust it into my hands and asked me to watch over that poor young midshipman with my life. I don’t know how I managed to keep hold of it in the waves, but I did.”
“A fine piece,” Bryant allowed.
Hart added, “Forgive us, Mr. Martin. We certainly do not mean to repay your excellent meal by casting doubts on your story.”
“Perhaps they blotted out his record for some reason,” Martin defended. “For all his bravery, he was not a conventional officer. Perhaps he crossed the wrong admiral.”
“Did you ever sail again?” Captain Bryant asked, clearly attempting to move the conversation away from controversy.
“Indeed I did. I was not yet five and twenty when it happened. After we were rescued, I went on to serve another twenty years. But never did I meet the equal of Captain Prince, God rest his soul.”
With another glance at Captain Bryant, Hart asked, “And after the navy . . . ?”
Martin shrugged. “I drifted about for a time, sorry to say. But then I met up with Miss Aubrey’s aunt, and chose a different course for my life.” He straightened. “But that is another long story, and I’ve already bent your ears long enough. Now, who wants more coffee?”
It is this delightful habit of journaling
which largely contributes to for m the easy style of writing
for which ladies are so generally celebrated.
– Jane Austen,
Northanger Abbey
Though the evening had been a success, and Mariah was exhausted, she slept fitfully. In the morning, she felt too tired to rise immediately. Instead, she pulled out one of her aunt’s journals from her bedside table and began to read.
I first became acquainted with the Prin-Hallsey family when
I was a girl of seventeen. My father had already passed on by this
point, and my mother was also suffering with the lung fever. Friends
counseled her to seek the care of physicians in Oxford. They feared
she would succumb to the disease otherwise. I urged her to follow their
advice, not only for her sake, but for my own. How bored I was of life
in our small, sleepy village. Mother of course was loath to leave our
snug cottage, even for the summer, but being exceptionally persuasive,
I managed to convince her.
We traveled post to Bourton and from there managed to hire a boy
and cart to take us the rest of the way. The road from Bourton was
very rough, and I feared we should lose all our belongings. But at last
we turned and passed through an old castle of a gatehouse and into
Windrush Court, the home of one of Mamma’s friends.
This friend was rather a fine lady and, in comparison, my mother
rather shabby. We were definitely the poor charity cousins to the grand
lady. I wondered how my mother was acquainted with such a personage,
and I came to understand that they had been at school together.
Mrs. Prin-Hallsey was not in the best of health either and so
felt compassion on my poor mamma. She arranged for her to be cared
for by her own Oxford physician, a Dr. Dartmore.
Mrs. Prin-Hallsey had a grown son, Frederick. But he barely
took notice of me. His mother confided that he had set his sights on
some fine lady of quality and she expected news of an engagement
any day.
I remember thinking, she is welcome to him!
He was attractive, it was true. Tall with dark hair and admirable
address. But he clearly thought a great deal of himself and his own
prospects, and I decided to have as little to do with him as possible,
even though we resided under the same roof. It was easy enough to
achieve, for I was busy as my mother’s companion and nurse. When
I did have time to myself, I befriended the daughter of the porter,
who lived in the gatehouse. She was a quiet, malleable girl a year my
junior, and she was quite willing to accompany me for walks, or play
at draughts, or read gothic novels together. . . .
Mariah never knew Francesca had met Frederick Prin-Hallsey when she was young, even before she had married Uncle Norris. And how interesting to have this glimpse of the girl who had once lived in the gatehouse. Was it her swing Mariah still enjoyed, now that Mr. Strong had repaired it? She wondered what had happened to the girl. Had she lived there with her parents until the Prin-Hallseys decided the north gate was no longer needed and her father lost his post? Or had she already married and moved elsewhere by then?
Laying aside the journal, Mariah rose, dressed, and went into the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. She should have been writing. Instead, she stared out the window, squinting at the crazy old man on the poorhouse roof as he came in and out of view between the trees. It had been easier to see him before the trees were in full leaf. What was he waving? Was he trying to communicate with her?
Suddenly a footstep scraped the floor nearby. She jumped.
“Oh, Martin! You startled me.”
Without missing a beat, and with no change in expression, he handed her his old ship’s glass.
“Don’t care for spying myself. But if you’re going to keep a lookout, might as well do it proper.” He turned without another word.
She sputtered, “I wasn’t – ”
But he was already gone.
She looked at the glass in her hand. No, she was not spying. She set it down on the small table only to pick it up again. It was no use. She could not resist. She stood once more at the window and raised the long glass to her eye, fiddling with it to find the poorhouse roof once more. Trees, chimneys, there! She sucked in a sharp breath and lowered the glass as if her eyes had been burned by the sun. For she had seen an old man holding his own glass, looking back at her.
