The Girl in the Gatehouse (21 page)

He beamed. “They are rinsed and ready. A pleasure not to be missed.”

As she and Dixon stepped to the door, Mariah noticed the gardener made no move to hand over the basket. The wily man was waiting to be invited inside.

She obliged him. “Please join us, Mr. Phelps.”

Sitting at the kitchen table together, the three of them selected and nibbled one berry, then another, Mariah enthusing over the flavor and even Dixon allowing they were sweet indeed.

The berries reminded Mariah of what the Miss Merryweathers had said, about the boy who had stolen three strawberries. She asked, “Mr. Phelps, how long have you been at Windrush Court?”

“Oh, more than twenty years now.”

“So you were here when the gate was locked?”

He nodded. “And sad I was to see it happen too.”

“Do you recall the Miss Merryweathers?” Mariah asked. “Two sisters you once showed about your gardens?”

He screwed up his face in recollection. “Twins, were they?”

“Exactly so. They remember you as well, and fondly. But they also recall a small boy helping himself to a few strawberries and wonder if that was the reason the gate was locked all those years ago.”

Mr. Phelps grimaced. “I hope not, miss. I never said a word about it. The master himself complained, said the folks over there had a mind to steal the place blind. Never saw evidence of that myself.” He popped another berry into his mouth. “The old porter who lived in the gatehouse before you, he said he had other ideas about why they locked the gate.”

“What ideas?” Mariah asked.

He shrugged. “Lost his post before I could ask him. He and his family were living here one day and gone the next.”

“How strange,” Mariah murmured.

Suddenly the strawberries did not taste as sweet.

A few days later, Mariah sat under a tree with drawing pencil and notebook, trying to outline a story idea while enjoying the fine early June weather. She was soon distracted from her purpose. The tree peonies were in flower, and their fragrance hung sweetly on the air. A titmouse, with blue head and wings, olive-green back, and yellow breast, perched on a flimsy branch, and Mariah began sketching the nimble bird when she should have been writing. Not far away, George Barnes sat leaning against the gate, dangling a string before a pouncing Chaucer, as if he had nothing more important to do either.

Lizzy strode over from the poorhouse, scowling and shaking a finger at her brother. “George! The schoolmaster is threatening to report you to Mrs. Pitt if you are not in your seat in five minutes.”

“Dash it,” George muttered, lumbering to his feet and sprinting across the lawn.

It was the word
threatening
that reminded her.

“Lizzy, do you have a minute?”

The pretty girl looked at her and shrugged, wary. Even so, when Mariah beckoned her over, she came.

“Is John Pitt pressuring you or threatening you in any way?” she asked, laying aside her pencil and notebook.

Lizzy’s mouth twisted. “Hardly that. Unless you call courting a threat.”

Mariah felt her brows rise. “John Pitt means to marry you?”

The girl looked flustered. “I did not say that, miss. He has made it clear he . . . likes me, is all.”

“And do you like him?”

Lizzy met Mariah’s gaze, but hesitated. “No. But please don’t tell anyone I said so.”

Mariah frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You would, if you lived in the poorhouse. Mrs. Pitt is the queen and John the prince. They make the rules and hand out the rewards and punishments. There have been extra helpings for George and extra blankets for us both since John took an interest. I won’t take food from my brother’s mouth by outright refusing him. Besides, Mrs. Pitt pays me now, so I’ve a few shillings to put by in hopes of getting out of there someday.”

Mariah rose and gently but firmly took Lizzy by the shoulders. “Lizzy, look at me. You are worth far more than food and blankets or a few shillings. Don’t value yourself so cheaply.”

Lizzy said archly, “You think I should ask for more?”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it. Lizzy, you do realize men will profess love and hint at marriage only to gain their own ends, don’t you? Not all men. But many.”

Lizzy looked down. “I know. John says he loves me, but I don’t think Mrs. Pitt would ever allow him to marry the likes of me.”

Mariah hesitated, wanting to tread carefully. “And does Mr. Pitt . . . demonstrate . . . his feelings?”

Lizzy again ducked her head, but Mariah saw the telltale blush.

“He tries to kiss me,” Lizzy allowed. “But only when we are alone. In the pantry or storeroom.”

“Then stay out of the pantry and storeroom.”

“It isn’t that easy, miss. Like I said – I can’t turn him against me.”

“But neither need you accept his advances. Lizzy, your virtue, your character, are so valuable. So important. Without her character, a girl has nothing and will never secure marriage with an honorable man.” This Mariah knew all too well. “If word gets around of the two of you alone together behind closed doors the worst will be believed, and what decent man will have you for his wife then?”

“What decent man will have me
now
?” Lizzy asked tartly. “Carrying the shame of the poorhouse upon me, not to mention my father’s ruin. I’ve no dowry, no money of my own, and no prospects. Why should I not take the only man I am ever likely to have?”

Mariah lowered her voice, though no one was near. “And if he uses you and does not marry you? What then?”

Lizzy’s face clouded. “You don’t understand! It is easy for you to speak of honor and character when you need not wonder where you’ll sleep or where your next meal will come from if the poorhouse turns you out.”

Mariah slowly shook her head. “I do understand. More than you know. Believe me when I tell you the loss of your character is a terrible price to pay.” She bit her lip to keep from saying too much. Too many people knew already.

Mariah took a deep breath and continued. “Now. You have admitted you don’t like John Pitt, let alone love him. What happens if you give yourself to him and the next day a man you
could
love appears at your door?”

Since meeting Captain Bryant, Mariah could well imagine that particular torment.

Lizzy laughed dryly, and Mariah cringed to hear the cynical, desolate sound from one so young. “At the poorhouse door? That will be the day. The only men who come there are the ancient apothecary and schoolmaster, the married vicar, and the oily undersheriff. John Pitt looks a prince indeed compared to any of them.”

Mariah grasped the girl’s hand. “Lizzy, you are only seventeen. Be careful. Wait and choose wisely. For once your choice is made it cannot be made again.”

Disheartened, Mariah watched Lizzy trudge back toward the poorhouse. She wished she could offer Lizzy a post to get her out from under the Pitts’ influence. But she could not. Not yet. Most of the money she’d received for her first book had gone to Mr. Hammersmith, as well as the greengrocer and the butcher. And she’d yet to receive a farthing for her second.

Was there nothing she could do? So many girls were in danger of falling victim to manipulative men or their own naïve vanity. Just as Mariah had been. It was too late for her, but there was
something
she could do. She could warn them. Mariah decided then and there that her next book would be a cautionary tale based on her own experiences. She would change the names and some circumstances. This, coupled with the fact that she was not publishing under her own name, would serve to protect her identity. She did not want readers to reckon her as the injured character, or guess the identity of her heartless betrayer. Or did she? Might he then share in her shame, if only in part? Not likely. She was grateful anew that Mr. Crosby had agreed to publish her as Lady A, even though he would have preferred to use her real name.

Going inside, she pulled out a fresh sheet of writing paper, opened her inkpot, dipped her quill, and began her third novel.

The Tale of Lydia Sorrow
by Lady A

Lydia was wearing a nightdress of lawn and lace, the one her
mother had purchased for the occasion. Her first house party. What
high hopes her mother cherished for the event. Several eligible gentlemen
from good families would be on hand, and she felt certain Lydia would
capture the brightest and best among them. Or at least the wealthiest
and best connected.

But Lydia cherished her own secret hope. She had come to Somerton
not with a desire to form some new acquaintance, but with a desire
to see the man who had already won her heart. To spend time with
him – far more time than she had been allowed before, out from under
the watchful eyes of her parents and with only a permissive chaperone
between them.

Lydia had listened politely to her mother’s many entreaties –
reminders of decorum and proper behavior – with outward acquiescence.
All the while thinking only of him.

But the man Lydia longed to see was tardy in arriving at Somerton.
Just when she began to fear he would not attend the house party at all,
she spied him entering the hall after dinner, as the ladies were shepherded
into the withdrawing room. Her pulse quickened. She would see him,
speak to him, the very next day. She was sure of it. . . .

Mariah paused and took a deep, shuddering breath. If only she had taken her mother’s entreaties to heart.

There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away
nor any coursers like a page of prancing poetry.

– Emily Dickinson

chapter 17

Matthew rose from behind the desk as Miss Aubrey entered the Windrush Court library and stood stiffly before him.

“You sent for me, Captain?”

Matthew winced. “How officious that sounds.” When would he learn he no longer commanded a large crew – that he need not delegate such tasks?

He stepped around the desk. “Miss Aubrey, I beg your pardon. Hammersmith mentioned he was bound for the gatehouse. I only asked him to inquire if you might call here sometime at your convenience.” He pulled a grimace. “Though I suppose on Hammersmith’s tongue it came out rather like a command?”

She nodded with a telling lift of her brows.

Matthew noticed a small beauty mark above her left eyebrow, near her temple. He found his gaze lingering on her brow, her cheeks, her lips, before he abruptly shifted his focus. He must stop staring before he gave the wrong impression.

“I am sorry. If this is not a convenient time, you must feel free to say so.”

“I am here now.”

“Very well. I . . . I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Yes?”

How direct, how steady, were her golden-brown eyes. Disconcertingly so.

He swallowed. “I have been away at sea the better part of four years. And even before that, I was not very good.”

She was staring at him, clearly confused. A wariness tightened her jaw and stiffened her feminine mouth.

Matthew sighed. “Never mind. It was likely too presumptuous.”

“What, Captain?”

He licked his dry lips. She already knew he was a novice horseman. Would her opinion be so much lowered by a confession of another wanting skill?

She must have sensed his self-consciousness, for a mischievous glint lit her brown eyes to amber. “Do you wish me to teach you to ride?”

He grinned. “No. Not to ride, Miss Aubrey.” He inhaled deeply. “To dance.”

She tilted her head to one side. “You do not know how?”

“Oh, I had lessons in my academy days and spent a night or two dancing very ill in London. But that is years ago now. I am hosting a house party later this summer and fear I may be called upon to dance. I was hoping you might help Hart and me polish our poor, half-forgotten skills?”

She smiled. “I shall help you with pleasure, Captain.” Her eagerness dimmed as she glanced from him to the empty room. “But I shall need some assistance.”