The Girl in the Gatehouse (28 page)
The joy and sun-filled afternoon faded and with it Mariah’s mood, which darkened as each hour passed with no sign of Lizzy Barnes. Mariah’s insistence on hiring Lizzy had obviously irked the matron, and the thought of an angry Mrs. Pitt discomfited Mariah. Ensconced in her sitting room, she read the outline and sample pages from playwright Simon Wells, then pulled out several sheets of fresh paper to begin drafting the script. But she soon found she could not concentrate. Worries about Lizzy kept distracting her. Exasperated, she pulled out one of her aunt’s journals instead.
My days at Windrush Court are more peaceful, though certainly
more boring now that Frederick Prin-Hallsey has gone to London
for the season. This is a quiet place for a girl, with no men to flirt
with, save the dashing but cheeky footmen. I did see a man in his late
twenties about the place a few times visiting Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, but
we were not introduced. There was also an artist, at least I guessed
he was, evidenced by the easel and canvas he brought with him, but
again Mrs. Prin-Hallsey did not consider a bored young houseguest
worthy of introduction.
My mother’s health is improving and I believe she is beginning to
chafe under the kind, though stifling attentions of “dear Jane,” as she
calls Mrs. Prin-Hallsey, always ending her friend’s name on a sigh.
For, while kindly meant, the lady does overbear one with itineraries
of exercise and endless lists of herbals and medicinals one ought to
take. I think, increasingly, Mother misses her own home and longs to
be mistress of it, and of herself, once more.
I cannot say I blame her.
Mariah flipped ahead several pages.
Mother continues in health now that we are home, though I do
not think she will ever be her old robust self again. I rarely think
of Windrush Court and Frederick Prin-Hallsey now. I have met
another man. A man who considers me worthy of his attention. A
kind, warmhearted man who makes me laugh. And even though he is
several years older than I am, I believe I shall marry him.
Mariah realized she was probably reading about her uncle Norris, her mother’s brother.
Perusing her aunt’s journal reminded Mariah of the new novel she had begun. Eager to return to it, she went into her room and retrieved the few scribbled pages. She reread what she had written so far and then sat back down to continue
The Tale of Lydia Sorrow
.
Lydia grasped the door between them like a shield, both thankful
for it and wishing it away in the same thought.
“Lydia . . . You are beautiful,” he breathed.
Her lips parted to say . . . something. But the words were forgotten
before they could fully form, so struck was she by the revelation in his
eyes. The deep awe and unexpected . . . Was it loss? Longing?
“Thunder and turf, Lydia, you will kill me yet.”
“Shh. If Miss Duckworth should hear or anyone see you . . .”
“Then let me in. For I am not going away. Not yet. Not until I
can speak my heart. I must, Lydia. I must.”
She hesitated. “Very well. But only for a moment. And keep your
voice down, I beg of you.”
The sweet, heady delight Lydia had felt upon seeing him earlier in
the hall, and at the anticipation of being alone with him in the garden,
perchance, or dim library, now lurched into something else.
Fear.
Mariah laid down her quill. Even reliving that much of the experience was enough to make her worry for Lizzy all over again.
At painful times, when composition is impossible
and reading is not enough, grammars and dictionaries
are excellent for distraction.
– Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Hoping a change of scenery might help, Mariah took her blotter, pages, ink, and quill down to the drawing room the next day. There she worked on the play for several hours, following the prescribed outline of love and deception between a man who must marry for money, and a poor, widowed countess feigning wealth. For some reason the drama left her unmoved. Perhaps it was because, as much as she might empathize with a woman hiding the reality of her situation, Mariah struggled to admire her. The climactic love scene, one of the few the playwright had scratched out, seemed overwrought and disingenuous to her. She had tried several drafts to improve upon it, but still felt it was not right.
She was standing at the front window, murmuring possible lines of dialogue aloud, when a rap startled her. She turned to find Captain Bryant grinning in the kitchen doorway.
“Caught you talking to yourself again, Miss Aubrey. I hope you don’t mind; Miss Dixon invited me in.”
“Of course not.”
He glanced down, his gaze snagged by something on the floor. Before she could prevent him, he stepped forward and picked up one of the playwright’s pages that had fallen from the table. Glancing at it, his brows rose. “Writing another theatrical, Miss Aubrey?”
Oh dear.
What to say? She decided to be as truthful as possible. “Ah. This time the playwright Simon Wells receives the credit.”
“And why, may I ask, have you Simon Wells’s script?”
Mariah swallowed. “Mr. Crosby, whom you met, is a friend of his. I gather he wants a woman’s . . . reaction.” Hoping to divert him, she picked up another page and went on hastily, “His love scene doesn’t strike me as quite right.”
He nodded, apparently accepting this explanation. “Shall we read it aloud?” he suggested. “See where the false note lies?”
“Um . . . that is very kind of you. But not necessary.”
He shrugged. “Might be amusing. I admit I was disappointed not to perform our little drama together at the poorhouse.”
Nerves fluttering, she admitted, “It would be helpful. If you are certain you do not mind?”
“Not at all.”
Palms damp, she handed him the marked-up original in Simon Wells’s hand and kept the version in her own hand for herself.
Again using the quick memory he had demonstrated during the rehearsal of “The Fox and the Crow,” Captain Bryant spent a few minutes reading the lines, then began abruptly, “ ‘Look at me. Why will you not look at me?’ ”
Mariah started in surprise. Pulling her eyes from his, she belatedly found her line and cleared her suddenly clogged throat. “ ‘I cannot. Not now. When you know I am not the woman you thought me.’ ”
“ ‘Not a widowed countess?’ ”
“ ‘A countess, yes, but a poor one.’ ” Mariah swallowed again, her throat desperately dry. “ ‘And you must marry a rich woman. An heiress to save your family’s estate. Go. She is better suited to you.’ ”
“ ‘You are correct. She is.’ ” Script between thumb and forefinger, Captain Bryant grasped Mariah’s shoulders with both hands.
She gasped, stunned by his intensity, never expecting him to so fully act out the script’s stage directions.
“ ‘Why can I not leave?’ ” he said. “ ‘Why am I drawn back to your door? Your arms?’ ”
Wistfully, Mariah thought,
Would that you were.
“ ‘I came here to win one woman,’ ” he continued, “ ‘and instead am lost to another.’ ”
“ ‘Go,’ ” Mariah croaked out. “ ‘Go while you can.’ ”
“ ‘It is already too late. Only promise me you will never again deceive me.’ ”
He traced a finger along her cheek and Mariah felt a thrill of pleasure.
He is only acting, foolish girl!
“ ‘I promise,’ ” she murmured, feeling like a hypocrite even as she delivered the line.
His voice dropped to an intimate whisper, “ ‘Well then, my winsome, ethereal girl, you have but one promise left to make.’ ”
His straight nose neared her short, upturned one. His sweet breath tickled her cheek, and the scent of shaving soap warmed her senses.
He is acting
, she reminded herself again.
The tip of his nose touched hers. He angled his head, lowering yet closer. His mouth dipped nearer, ever nearer to hers. She could not breathe. Could not move. His lips touched hers, and a flood of warmth filled her chest and made pudding of her knees. He pulled back only slightly and looked into her face. His brown eyes were warm, his pupils large black orbs.
“There is no kiss,” she said breathlessly, “in the script.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “There should be.”
Remembering his intentions toward another, the momentary thrill dissolved. What had he heard? Was he trifling with her because of her reputation?
His smile faded. He winced and pulled back. “This was a bad idea. I knew it even as I suggested it. Please forgive me, Miss Aubrey.”
“Of course.” She swallowed, struggling to regain her composure. “So, what do you think of the scene?” Her voice wavered. “Awful, is it not? Melodramatic? Overwrought?”
“I don’t know. I found it quite . . . effective.” He cleared his throat. “A word of advice? Tell Simon Wells that a real man would not describe a woman as ‘winsome and ethereal.’ Not if he truly admired her, at any rate.”
Defensiveness flared at this criticism of her work. But she was too shaken to reply.
Matthew left the gatehouse directly after that, knowing he had better retreat quickly before he lost his head. What had he been thinking? Why had he toyed with her like that? He had already told her of his intentions toward another woman. How little Miss Aubrey must regard him now, for thoughtlessly flirting with her, all the while hoping to marry another. How inconstant he must appear. Was he? All he knew with certainty was that he did not like himself very much at the moment. It was time, past time, to get back on course and begin planning his campaign in earnest.
His first step would be to contact fellow officer Captain Ned Parker and his highborn and fashionable mother. Mrs. Parker had been the one to suggest a house party in the first place.
“Why do you not let me
plan the party?”
she had said.
“Nothing like it to launch you into society – at
least into the specific circle you have in mind.”
It was time to take her up on her offer.
He wrote to her the very next day, inviting her and her son to visit Windrush Court, or if they preferred, he would travel to London and call upon them there.
Mrs. Parker accepted his invitation by return post and informed him that she and Ned would arrive the following week.
In the meantime, Matthew gave the gatehouse a wide berth.
When the Parkers’ coach-and-four rumbled up the drive, Matthew walked out to meet it. Captain Parker, he saw, rode his own Arabian beside the carriage.
The groom handed down the elegant middle-aged woman, and Matthew bowed low. “Mrs. Parker, how good of you to come.” He looked up at her dashing, fair-haired son. “Ned old man, enjoying your leave as much as I?”
“No doubt more.” Parker dismounted with athletic grace.
Matthew led the way inside to the drawing room, where refreshments awaited. William Hart waited as well.
Matthew began the introductions. “Mrs. Parker, may I present William Hart, my good friend and former first officer.”
Hart bowed over her hand. “Mrs. Parker. A pleasure.”
Matthew turned to Ned. “You remember Lieutenant Hart?”
Parker nodded and Hart saluted. “How do you do, sir.”
Matthew smiled once more at Mrs. Parker and gestured her into an armchair upholstered in apple green velvet. “Thank you again for coming.”
“I am happy to be here,” she said. “Life in town had grown tiresome. I embrace the challenge of hosting a man’s first house party. It will be a resounding success or my name is not Catherine Steadman Parker.”
“And we gents shall leave you to it, Mamma,” her son said, pouring himself a tall drink. “Give us leave to visit the cellars, and we shall give you leave to arrange the rest.”
“Naughty boy. You might at least help with the guest list.”
Keenly interested, Matthew sat in a matching armchair opposite Mrs. Parker. With a dramatic sigh, her son slumped onto the crimson silk settee. Hart joined him.
