The Girl in the Gatehouse (29 page)
“I have a few ideas and have begun a tentative list, of course,” Mrs. Parker said, producing a small pocketbook.
“Of course,” Ned Parker echoed with an indulgent smirk.
Mrs. Parker opened the book. “You three, of course. And we must have James Crawford.”
Matthew frowned, but Mrs. Parker said gently, “I am afraid we simply must, Captain.” Then she went on more brightly, “And perhaps Bartholomew Browne for interest.”
“The widower poet? What rapture.” Sarcasm curled Ned Parker’s words, and Matthew bit back a smile.
His mother lifted her chin. “It will not hurt you to keep company with a little culture and accomplishment, Ned.”
Privately, Matthew was surprised Mrs. Parker wished to invite a fairly recent widower and doubted the man would come.
Mrs. Parker returned to her notes. “For the ladies, we shall have Isabella Forsythe and Miss Ann Hutchins, a friend of hers. Most eligible.”
“You can keep throwing her in my path, Mamma,” Ned drawled. “But I shan’t change my mind.”
Mrs. Parker ignored him. “I still need a few more ladies. There are any number of young debutantes we might consider, Helen and Millicent Mabry, for example. And the ladies must have chaperones.”
Mrs. Parker regarded Matthew. “Are you acquainted with any other accomplished young ladies we ought to consider?” The truth was Matthew was not. Whom else could he invite to make up the party? And what would his guests do at Windrush Court?
There would be shooting, which the men would enjoy, and billiards and cards. But how would the women occupy themselves? There would be dinners, of course, and he could ask Hammersmith to arrange for local musicians to play for a ball. But would Isabella and her friend be content with only the society of the Mabry sisters, agreeable girls though they might be? He thought suddenly of Miss Aubrey. She was clearly educated and accomplished. He wondered if she might be persuaded to come over in the evenings. . . .
In the end, Matthew told Mrs. Parker to invite whomever she thought best, as long as Isabella Forsythe was among the party. Anyone else, he knew, was only there to disguise his real purposes.
After a visit of a few days to tour the estate, make plans, and take stock of what needed to be done before the house party, the Parkers returned to London. They left Matthew with lists of tasks to be done and supplies to be purchased before their return in August. He grew weary simply reading all that must be accomplished in the next few weeks. But it would be worth it, he assured himself. As long as she was there.
He saw Miss Aubrey taking a turn around the gardens and went to join her.
“Captain Bryant.” She hesitated as he approached, her gaze meeting his, then awkwardly flitting away. She faltered, “I have not . . . seen you . . . in some time.”
Dash it.
Was she still feeling embarrassed about that kiss?
It was on the tip of his tongue to say he had missed her, or to apologize again, but he refrained. “I have been occupied with guests,” he said instead. “A friend from town and his mother.”
She nodded her understanding, visibly relieved, and they walked on.
He said, “I believe I mentioned that I am hosting a small house party in August. You would be most welcome to join us for . . . well, whatever you like. Dinner, riding, dancing.”
“I love to ride, but a house party?” Miss Aubrey shuddered. “No thank you.”
He was taken aback. “You don’t approve of house parties?”
“No. I don’t.”
“The young ladies will be chaperoned,” he defended. “And my friend’s mother – a very respectable lady – will act as hostess. It will all be above reproach, Miss Aubrey. Quite innocent.”
“In my experience, house parties are never completely innocent.”
He paused to look at her. “Oh?”
“I do appreciate the invitation, Captain. But parties and large gatherings are not for me. I prize my privacy and prefer to live quietly.”
Matthew was surprised by her vehement objection. He had not taken her for shy and retiring. “Well then, you must pardon me, Miss Aubrey. My calls to your door must have been repugnant to you.”
“Not at all, sir! I was happy to make your acquaintance, and you and Mr. Hart are welcome at any time. But I have no wish to meet with strangers.” A shadow of concern crossed her lovely face. “At least,” she murmured, “I assume they are strangers.”
They walked on. “As you wish, Miss Aubrey. We shall not burst in upon you. But if you change your mind at any point, you are most welcome.”
“Thank you, Captain. But I will not change my mind.”
The next morning, Captain Bryant came trotting up the gatehouse lane on Storm, leading a second horse of dapple grey.
Mariah met him in the back garden. “Good morning, Captain.”
He lifted his hat. “Miss Aubrey, I wonder if you might like to go riding with me? You mentioned you enjoyed it.”
A surge of excitement was followed by myriad reasons why she should or could not. She had not brought her riding habit, had no proper hat, a script she ought to be writing, not to mention questions of propriety.
But before she could demur, Dixon stepped out of the house and answered for her. “She would be most delighted to accompany you, Captain. Just give us a few minutes, please.”
Dixon pulled her inside, but Mariah objected
sotto voce
, “But, Dixon, I can’t. I don’t – ”
“Of course you do.”
A “few minutes” became half an hour, after which Mariah descended in her aunt’s old riding habit of voluminous skirt, trim-fitting jacket with velvet collar, plumed hat, and short leather gloves. She felt self-conscious as she stepped outside, but Captain Bryant’s eyes lit appreciatively, putting her at ease.
The dapple-grey mare was saddled with a quilted black sidesaddle with single pommel. In the absence of a mounting block, Mariah would need the assistance of a groom to mount. In the absence of a groom . . .
“May I?” Captain Bryant asked as she approached. He bent and cupped his hands, offering her a leg up. She hesitated, eyeing his pristine gloves.
“Go on, I don’t mind. My valet needs
something
to keep him occupied. Meticulous fool spent twenty minutes tying this dandified cravat.”
“It looks well on you. You . . . look well,” she faltered. He did indeed. In fact, he looked quite handsome in his cutaway riding coat and black boots with contrasting tan cuffs.
Placing her foot into his interlaced hands, she allowed him to assist her up onto the horse. Settling onto the sidesaddle, she hooked her right knee over the pommel and rested her calf behind the horse’s shoulders. She felt Captain Bryant’s gloved hands gently guide her slippered left foot into the single stirrup. Warm pleasure threaded up her leg at his touch, innocent and pragmatic though it was. She smoothed her long skirt down the left side of the horse, making sure her legs were fully covered. Then she took up the reins.
Captain Bryant remounted Storm, who shied and danced but submitted to his firm, gentle commands. He had come a long way as a horseman since the night they first met.
Mariah could not wait. Eager as she was to ride again after so long, she clicked the horse forward into a walk. She wondered if anyone rode her horse, Lady, at Attwood Park. Did they leave it to the groom to exercise Mariah’s bay mare? Or had they sold her, that reminder of their daughter gone astray? Tears pricked her eyes at the thought, but she blinked them away, determined to enjoy this ride, this day, and this companion.
Captain Bryant was beside her in a moment. Together they rode through the grounds at a stately walk, then at a modest trot out the main gate and along the turnpike as Mariah found her seat and rhythm. Taking the lead, Captain Bryant turned his horse down a rural lane. Here they urged the horses into a smooth canter. Mariah’s mood soared. Ah, the freedom of the rolling gait, the wind teasing the hair at her temples, strands coming free and dancing in the air and catching at the corners of her mouth. . . .
Her grinning mouth.
Captain Bryant’s eyes gleamed. “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Aubrey?”
She smiled. “You know I am.”
Mariah knew it was foolish to feel this little flutter about Captain Bryant. How futile to open her heart to a man bent on pursuing another. And if he showed romantic interest in her, would she not then be obligated to reveal her past? How she hated the thought of watching the admiration fade from his shining brown eyes. It was better this way, she told herself. Since he had made his intentions toward another woman so clear, she needed not say a word.
They rode through a gently rolling meadow, and then along a narrow stream, whirring and whispering over rocks and around bends, sparkling in the sunlight and leading them farther and farther from Windrush Court. Mariah had not ventured this far from the gatehouse since arriving last autumn. It felt good to lengthen her tether. To fill her lungs and savor new sights and sounds.
At a spot where the embankment flattened, they allowed the horses to pause and drink. Mariah held Captain Bryant’s gaze, hoping her eyes expressed the depth of gratitude and warmth she felt, feelings she thought wiser not to put into words. She said only, “Thank you so much for today, Captain. I cannot remember when I have enjoyed myself more.”
“Then we shall have to ride again.”
But with the house party looming near, Mariah had the foreboding sense that this ride might very well be their first and last.
Alas! A woman that attempts the pen
Such an intruder on the rights of men,
Such a presumptuous Creature is esteem’d
The fault can by no virtue be redeem’d.
– Anne Finch, Countess of Winchelsea, 1713
Mariah was sitting on the garden bench a few days later when Hugh Prin-Hallsey sauntered up the lane. She had not laid eyes on him since she had seen him talking to Mr. Crosby on the road a fortnight before and had assumed he had gone back to London. What had he returned for this time?
She rose. “Mr. Prin-Hallsey, hello.”
“Please. Call me Hugh. Are we not practically cousins?” He smiled expectantly, but she only stared at him, wary.
“Will you not invite me in?”
“Oh. Of course.” She stepped to the back door, opened it, and gestured him inside. “Please.”
Feeling the kitchen too humble for such an august guest, she led Hugh into the drawing room. Chagrined to find a copy of her novel on the table, she quickly stacked other books atop it, preparing to stash it from view. But he moved more quickly than she.
“Ah . . . Lady A’s novel. Did you enjoy it?”
“I . . . did, yes.”
“They were full of it at the Whites. But between you and me, I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that Lady A is really no lady at all.”
Had he somehow guessed? Pinpricks of shame and dread riddled her body. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugged. “I imagine Lady A is really a Mister A in disguise. All the best writers are men.”
Relieved to have misunderstood, she said faintly, “Are they?”
“I think so.” He glanced around the room. “But I have not come to talk about books, Mariah. May I call you Mariah?”
“I . . . suppose so.”
“You see, I have exhausted my search of the house, and Bryant is quite vexed with all my comings and goings. So, I think, I believe, I
hope
, that what I am seeking is here in the gatehouse. Has been here all along.”
