The Girl in the Gatehouse (34 page)
She stared at him, dreadful realization pricking through her. “How do you know?”
He leaned near, face bright with youthful pleasure. “Because I am that man.”
Awash with incredulity, Mariah felt her mouth fall ajar. “
You
are Mrs. Wimble? I don’t believe it.”
His pleasure dimmed. “And why not?”
She shook her head, her mind refusing to accept that what she had read – the feminine thoughts and feelings – had been conjured by this man.
But had they not seemed familiar? And now that she thought about it, had she not seen Hugh talking to Mr. Crosby that day?
Fellow traveler indeed!
After a quarter of an hour of gloating, Hugh apparently realized Mariah was not going to offer him anything to eat and finally took his leave.
When he had, Mariah went upstairs to her bedchamber and pulled her aunt’s journals from her dressing chest. She felt compelled to peruse the volumes in which Hugh was often mentioned, to see if there was any hint about his writing stories as a younger man.
I learned that Frederick Prin-Hallsey married the wealthy, well-connected
girl as his family had hoped. Her name was Honora Whitmore,
a descendant of the local gentry from whom the village long ago
took its name. I also learned that the couple had one son, which is all
I managed to bear for Mr. Norris. In a day where families of eight,
ten, or twelve children are common, Providence had given us each only
one. Alas, Providence also saw fit to take mine from me, while their
son still lives.
I never met Honora Prin-Hallsey. I heard a great deal about her
from Frederick, and attempted to piece together an accurate description
of her character from the varying accounts of husband, son, neighbor,
and servant. Whatever Honora had been, Frederick apparently thought
me an improvement as a wife, which may not speak very highly for
her demeanor or warmth. Of course, in Hugh’s eyes, I was nothing
to her and never would be. Nothing I did or didn’t do found favor in
his eyes.
I was surprised when I learned Honora had been responsible
for the donation of funds and lands for the poorhouse adjacent to the
estate. Nothing in her son’s behavior nor her husband’s devotion led me
to credit her with Christian charity. And this knowledge of her good
deed caused me to regret my uncharitable thoughts.
How sad, Mariah thought, that such a generous and charitable woman had ended up with a son like Hugh.
Reading about the poorhouse brought Lizzy Barnes to mind, and Mariah wondered yet again if Mrs. Pitt had even told the girl about Mariah’s offer of a post. How she wished she could pluck Lizzy from the institution – and from John Pitt’s reach.
Coming to the end of that journal, Mariah reached down and extracted a second volume from nearer the bottom of the stack, to see if it was more of the same. She opened it and began reading.
Lord Masterly’s eyes bore into Jemima’s limpid green gaze. His
hand reached across the gravestone to grasp hers.
“I knew you would return to me. I have cast a spell upon you.
One you could no more resist than the tide can resist licking the waiting
shore.”
“No, my lord, you are wrong. I am only here to find my grandfather’s
map, and with it your ruin.”
What in the world?
Mariah flipped a few more pages, surprised and somehow amused to see pages and pages of some gothic novel written in her aunt’s loopy hand.
She smiled.
What had Aunt Fran said?
“You and I have more in common than you
might guess.”
Mariah received another letter from Mr. Crosby – this one reiterating author Thomas Piper’s wish to meet her and to publish reviews or excerpts of her next novel in a leading periodical.
Why did the man wish to help her? Or did he? What if he had some other motive, one he conveniently neglected to mention to a young and perhaps gullible A. K. Crosby Junior? Her encounters with the man who betrayed her, and even with devious Hugh Prin-Hallsey, had left her skittish and unable to trust her instincts – or the assurances of others.
Mr. Crosby had intimated that her first book was not selling as well as he wished, and that he planned a smaller printing on the second. He said reviews by Thomas Piper might help her career, might help him justify publishing a third Lady A novel. But was success worth the risk of giving up her anonymity, of her family discovering her work, and the public discovering Lady A was no lady at all?
Mr. Crosby said she might know the man. If so, could the secret author be Hugh Prin-Hallsey himself ? He had admitted to one pseudonym already. But could – would – Hugh help her? She doubted it was worth the risk of finding out.
Mr. Crosby ended his letter by saying he would write again in a week’s time with specifics of when and where the proposed meeting would take place. She would need to decide by then.
Knowing she thought more clearly while she walked, Mariah left the gatehouse, intending to take a brisk stroll around the grounds.
Martin, sitting on the garden bench with pipe and newspaper, lifted a hook in casual greeting.
“Hello, Martin.”
“Miss.” He turned a page of his newspaper. “Napoleon has finally sailed for his long-anticipated exile on the island of Elba.”
“That is good news. Why don’t you seem happy about it?”
“Elba is not far enough away, to my way of thinking.”
She stepped nearer, glancing idly at a second periodical on the bench beside him. “What is this?”
He lifted his odd half-shrug. “
Gentleman’s Magazine
. Mrs. Strong is good enough to save Master Hugh’s copies for me once he is through with them.”
Surprised, Mariah shook her head. “First the newspapers and now magazines as well. If you tell me you read novels, I shall faint dead away.”
He turned another page. “Well, you won’t find me reading epic poems. Cannot abide the longwinded things.”
“I shall tell Mr. Scott you said so.”
He looked up quickly.
“I am only teasing, Martin. How should I know the man?”
“I don’t either. Still wouldn’t want to offend him.” He picked up the
Gentleman’s Magazine
and opened it to an earmarked page. “There is something in here that might interest you. A review on that novel you’ve been reading.
Euphemia’s Return
?”
“More glowing praise, I suppose?”
“Rather, yes. It has less glowing things to say about
A Winter in
Bath
, but I don’t suppose you would care to hear it?”
“No, Martin. I would not.”
He nodded. “If you are headed up to the great house, take heed. Last I heard, Captain Bryant and some other fellow were shooting archery blindfolded.”
Oh dear.
Mariah walked gingerly down the gatehouse lane, careful to look in all directions as she neared the new archery range. She saw no one about.
Continuing on, she spied Mr. Hart sitting alone under a tree, portable writing desk on his lap and quill in hand. “Mr. Hart.”
Startled, he looked up, then quickly slid the paper beneath a blank sheet, his eyes flitting, his expression awkward. It was something she might have done. Could it be . . . ? Sweet Mr. Hart, the secret novelist?
“May I ask what you are doing, Mr. Hart?”
“Oh, uh . . . nothing really.”
Why did he appear so sheepish? So guilty? She raised her brows in expectation.
He said, “I was only writing a letter.”
“It must be quite a letter to cause you to blush so.”
He ducked his head. “I am afraid you have caught me out, Miss Aubrey.” He attempted a chuckle, but it came out as a pitiful
huh
.
She waited.
“You will think me very foolish. As I no doubt am.”
“Perhaps not.”
“It is all a lot of nonsense. A man like me, trying to be . . . eloquent. Captain Bryant is so much better with words than I am.”
“Is he?”
Surely not Captain Bryant,
she thought
.
He would have told her. But then again, she had not told him.
Hart confessed, “I was trying to write a love letter, you see, with a bit of verse. But I have not a poetical turn of mind. I don’t suppose you would take pity on a poor besotted creature?”
Not a novel. A letter.
She thought of what Mr. Crosby had said, about female authors earning extra money by writing love letters and poems for gentlemen. Still the notion struck her as wrong.
“May I ask whom the letter is for?”
He met her eyes. “Miss Barnes. I thought you would have guessed.”
“I did. But I am glad to hear I was right.”
“Are you?”
She nodded. “But a girl like Lizzy does not need fancy words or poetry written by another. Write what is in your heart.” She reached over and briefly touched his shoulder. “She will like that, I think.”
Mr. Hart squinted off into the distance. “What is in my heart is neither poetic nor, I daresay, likely to sweep a girl off her feet. I . . . I want her to meet my mother.”
Mariah knew Mr. Hart’s invalid mother lived with her sister in a small pair of rooms on the coast. And that mother and son were close.
“Tell me, Miss Aubrey. Do you judge such a suggestion foolish or premature? Will Miss Barnes think I presume too much?”
“No,” Mariah assured him. “She will think you a man with honorable intentions.”
Did Thomas Piper, whoever he was, have honorable intentions toward her?
My only books
Were woman’s looks,
And folly’s all they’ve taught me . . .
– Sir Thomas Moore
Mariah sat at the kitchen table, lingering over coffee and her manuscript. Just outside, Albert Phelps was chatting, advising, and lending a hand as Dixon worked in the garden. His voice carried clearly on the still day, and Mariah overheard much of the one-sided conversation.
“Know why I like plants?” Mr. Phelps asked.
Dixon made no reply, but clearly none was needed.
“Because I like being surrounded by living things. Makes a man . . . a widower . . . a bit less lonesome, you see.” He cleared his throat. “Do . . . you ever get lonesome, Miss Dixon?”
My goodness
, Mariah thought. The man was smitten indeed.
Mariah rose to refill her cup. Through the window, she watched as a lad from the great house jogged up the lane, calling for Mr. Phelps. Apparently the housekeeper, Mrs. Strong, wanted yet more flowers for the house party. The gardener dutifully hurried away, waving his hat in farewell.
Martin ambled out from the stable and picked up the hoe Mr. Phelps had abandoned. “Hello, Miss Dixon. Have you seen Maggie today?”
“No. Wonder what is keeping her.”
For several moments, the two worked companionably together, Martin managing the tool somewhat awkwardly with his hook. Then he hesitated. “Miss Dixon, I have been wondering. . . . Do you mind when people address you as Dixon?”
Mariah stiffened. He meant when
she
addressed Dixon by her surname.
Dixon said easily, “I am used to it. The girls’ father started it, when I elected to stay on as general companion and dogsbody after Miss Julia went away to school. Before that, it was Nanny Dixon.”
“May I ask your Christian name?”
She tilted her head to look at him. “Susan.”
“A lovely name.”
“Is it?” She resumed hoeing. “I admit I like hearing it – it’s been so long. It is, of course, what my parents called me, and sometimes I miss it.”
“I should be honored to call you Susan,” Martin said. “If you give me leave to do so.”
Susan Dixon smiled. “Yes, I should like that very much.”
Feeling sheepish and chagrined, Mariah returned to her chair.
Several minutes later, Dixon came into the kitchen, removing her gardening gloves as she did so.
